


Tales of Conquerors

by courgette96



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blackmail, Comfort/Angst, Developing Relationship, F/M, Kinda, Loki is not a good person, Obsessive Behavior, Or at least he tries to be, Politics, Pseudo-Incest, Romance, Sigyn won't have that though, Thor Is a Good Bro, neither is Sigyn, relationship as healthy as you want to make it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-06 04:12:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4207431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courgette96/pseuds/courgette96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither of them were born to be kings, but in the end they will be the ones to rule.</p><p>With smiles and whispers, Loki and Sigyn go to war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> No beta, all mistakes are mine
> 
> IMPORTANT: Sigyn's look in this fic isn't mine! It belongs to nanihoo, one of the best artists on tumblr in my opinion. Her art is to die for, especially all her Logyn drawings, which are one of the main reasons I got into this ship.
> 
> You can find her art tumblr here: http://nanihoosartblog.tumblr.com/ 
> 
> And her main tumblr here: http://nanihoo.tumblr.com/

Great things happens to those who wait.

 It is a truth held across the realms, the promise of a reward for patience and goodwill.

 Loki, for all his cunning, has little patience to spare. He hungers too much, craves to vividly for that. However, when it is needed, when the reward is sweet, then he will play the long game. He will plan, wait and whisper. In those times, seeing the men and women dance to a tune of his own making is almost as delicious as the prize itself.

 Sigyn is a patient woman. It is a quality she takes pride in, a mark that separates her from those Aesir who so love brutish charges and quick battles. It is that patience that allows her to endure the presence of those she despises so much. In those times she smiles indulgently, and none but Loki will ever know of the sharp scorn behind that gentleness.

 (Neither of them have goodwill, not anymore, but they have always been adept at using the one of others.)

 Great things happen to those who wait. Loki and Sigyn have waited long enough.

*

 

 “I find it odd that of the two of us, you would be the one pacing,” Loki drawls from his chair. He doesn’t even look up from his book. Rather, he flips a page as he carelessly stretches his legs in front of him.

 Of course, it is all purely affected. Today is too important a day for their alertness to falter. Sigyn knows that Loki is just as much on edge as she is, for experience tells them that it is always the final step of a plan that goes wrong. He is most likely baiting her, an attempt a distracting himself until the guards come to escort them.

 She will not respond to such provocations, no matter how much it may amuse her love. And so she states simply: “I worry.”

 “Evidently.” He snaps the book shut, walking up to her from behind. Gently, he wraps his arms around her waist, resting his chin on top of her head. Instinctively, she relaxes into his embrace, her back pressing against his front. “You needn’t. You weave fate as well as any Norn, Sigyn. You’re skills are too outstanding to fail now.” He kisses her hair. “We have both played our parts beautifully.”

 “It is not our abilities I worry about.” She says softly. “So many elements we cannot control…”

 He chuckles. “Fear of chaos, love?” He spins her around, tilts her head up. His eyes shine with mischief, his smirk a dangerous thing, and like this he almost looks like the young boy who first stole her heart. Almost, if it weren’t for the cold bite and sharp blades dancing behind his eyes. Too many years have passed, too much bitterness and brushes with madness for them not to be there. They make her love him more, if possible. He could hide them, if he so wished, but he lets her see. He trusts, and that is the greatest gift he can offer.  “Should I be worried, or flattered?”

 She rolls her eyes at him. “As if I could ever fear you.” She leans her head against his chest. “Chaos I can deal with. It destroys everything and threatens all, and there is a fairness in it that makes it manageable. It’s the Aesir themselves that are the problem.” She huffs in frustration. “At heart they are like children. They will flock to whatever makes them feels safe, makes them content, and will turn away just as easily. And that preoccupies me.”

 He laughs earnestly this time. She bristles. “Do not mock me, Loki. We need them still.”

 “We always will.” He agrees. “I laugh because my dear betrothed is so astute, yet oblivious at the same time. The masses are indeed like children, and all the easier to enrapture for it.”

 “Oh?” She very much wants to cling to her irritation, yet she feels the corner of her lips turn up at his nonchalant confidence. “Enlighten me, then.”

 He strokes her cheek, looking very satisfied with both of them. “All you need is to tell them a good story.”

 At his answer, her expression morphs into one of surprise, before letting way for her chuckle. “And we have woven quite a tale, haven’t we?”

 

*

 

 Once upon a time, there was a princess that lived far away from home.

 

*

 

 Sif looks around the room, her discomfort showing despite her best efforts. The woman in front of her calmly sips her drink.

 It is odd for her to be uncomfortable in such a room. Although it is not nearly as magnificent as the halls of Asgard, there is still a simple beauty in it. White walls left mostly bare, with the exception of a large tapestry depicting Yggdrasil hanging upon one of them. Wooden furniture made more comfortable with fine cushions and blankets. The entire room is brightly lit, its large windows left wide open, allowing the sounds of the Vanir capital to reach the two.

 Truly, the room is welcoming, and Sif should be more at ease. But it is also true that the shield maiden has spent most of her life in the company of men and warriors. The training grounds she so favors are simple in their mindset, the company she keeps frank and straightforward in their behavior. Here, everything is too delicate, too feminine for her taste. The fine furniture feels much too fragile compared to the chairs of iron and gold she is used to.

 These quarters demand restraint and gentleness from all who enter, and such behavior destabilizes Sif.

 (Sigyn knows this, took great care in arranging their meeting here. She has never been one to pass up on an advantage.)

 “It had been so long, my Lady Sif.” She speaks with warm politeness, as befits one once raised as daughter to the All-Father.

 “Indeed it has.”

 “I imagine you must have been much too occupied to come all the way to Vanaheim.” Sigyn twirls a strand of hair as she speaks, keeping her tone deliberately casual. Her eyes, on the other hand, are alert, ready to spot any reaction to her words.

 “These past few years have been… eventful.” Sif replies, knowing all the while that that is not what Sigyn is referring to. Thor’s coronation may have been the beginning of a restless period, but Sigyn has taken residence on Vanaheim centuries before.

 (To use the word banishment would be admitting shame upon the house of Odin, and that is something no Aesir could ever consider.)

 “Yes, I’ve heard. It broke my heart, to hear of the trials you have suffered.” It is half-true. Her heart broke for one man only. “A worse torment still was knowing I could do nothing to intervene.”

 The accusation hangs in the air, unspoken but clearly heard. Sif bristles on behalf of her kings. “Lady Odindottir…”

 “Iwaldidottir,” her host cuts her off coolly. “It is the name I was given before my…departure. I am certain you remember. You were there after all.”

 “I had thought you had taken it yourself,” Sif snaps, “since being a daughter of Odin had been the source of your woes.”

 If she had hoped to shame her, she remains disappointed, for Sigyn’s eyes merely narrow. “Why are you here, Lady Sif?”

 “The All-Father would welcome you back in Asgard.”

 Sigyn’s breathe hitches.

 How long has she been yearning to hear those words? How many days has she spent weeping, mourning her loss?

 “Why?” She keeps her voice as steady as she can. “The All-Father has never been one to revoke his sentences.”

 “Circumstances have changed.” The shield-maiden’s speech is cold and practiced. She does not believe the words she says, but she will speak them as the voice of her King. “Prince Thor has left Asgard for the foreseeable future, Loki is in the dungeons still. His actions during the convergence have earned him some new consideration. In this new situation, your presence would be an advantage.”

 Of course, Sigyn thinks. Loki should have been left in his cell, to spend an eternity in the shadows as the people slowly forget his existence. The stain on the house of Odin hidden away for good. His prowess against the Kurse has most certainly prevented that. The All-Father must play with this new card dealt.

 But why summon her back? What purpose serves this move?

 It doesn’t matter, she decides. She has no problem acting as her enemies wish if it serves her own interests as well.

 She smiles as warmly, and prepares for war. “Then of course, I shall obey the All-Father’s wishes.”

 

*

 

 Once upon a time, there was a monster who was the son of a king.

*

 Inside the dungeons of Asgard lies the fallen Prince.

 They call him Liesmith, Laufeyson, Kinslayer and Deceiver.

 Disgraced once, but that was before the Dark Elves attacked, before the beloved Queen fell to the blade of the Kurse. Before the dark prince avenged her, slaying the beast with all the might and fury of a son of Frigga. And as the golden heir was barricaded away in the palace, shielding his mortal lover who bore the Aether, it was Loki who pushed back the enemy, with spells and illusions, so dishonorable but oh so effective.

 So no, he can no longer be called disgraced. Not when he stayed during the battle, watched as the All-Father rode in and killed the wretched Malekith. When Odin-King turned to gaze upon the man that should have been in the dungeons, the mage merely bowed his head and offered his wrists to be bound.

 Dutiful, Honorable, Liberator and Avenger. But Odinson no longer, Prince no longer, hailing from the land of ice and monstrous giants. The people do not know what to make of him now.

 Loki prefers it that way. In their ignorance, he will give them the answers that please him.

 Staying had been a gamble, the possibility of being granted freedom more appealing than a life as a fugitive. And closer in reach than it has been in a long time.

 So here lays Loki Laufeyson, fighting boredom in his cell by contemplating his next move. Perhaps he shall make himself ill, enough so that the All-Father would have to send a healer. Or perhaps even carry him to Eir’s side. Would sympathy garnered and an opening to the outside world be worth deliberately putting himself in a position of weakness?

 The idea has merit.

 Footsteps echo in the corridor, the sound coming closer and closer to his cell. A visitor, then. How very surprising. Has the All-Father been missing the pleasure of his company?

 He looks out towards the end of the hallway, and his eyes widen.

 Sigyn.

 His once-sister.

 He had heard of her pardon, a favor from a guard he had saved during the invasion. It is a rare thing for Odin to revoke his sentence.

 Why would she risk such a chance by coming to see him?

 Unless of course…

 He watches her in silence, watches as she stops in front of that golden barrier and studies him. He studies her in return.

 She had been almost fully grown when she had been banished by their then father, but he can still recognize some visible changes in her. Her skin is a shade darker than before, and more freckled than he remembers. She is slightly taller than before, although she is still small enough that the top of her head would barely brush his lips. Her light brown hair is a shade redder than he remembers, tied in the elaborate fashion of the Vanir. The dress she wears is of the same style, the neckline more plunging than what can be found in Aesir garb. It is her face that bears the most difference though. Blue eyes much darker than before, and not because of the hue of her iris. Her entire demeanor is more controlled than it had been, a mask he recognizes well for it has been his for a long time now.

 Is that all that has changed, he cannot help but wonder. Has time erased any sentiment she might have held towards him, or does the cause of her banishment still hold true? It has been centuries, more than enough for her to move on to new interests. Yet her affection had been strong indeed….

 “Loki” she breathes like a prayer, and he has his answer.

 He raises an eyebrow, and smirks. “After all this time, dearest Sigyn? I am unsure whether I should be flattered or concerned.”

 She smiles in return. “Concern for me of for you?”

 “For myself, of course,” he says amiably. “I do know where obsession might lead. Shall I expect a knife in the back should you not get what you desire?”

 “Time hasn’t curbed your tongue any I see. You still have a remarkable talent for finding the worst in every situation.” Her tone is pleasant, but he can hear the faint trace of hurt she cannot quite hide. “Do you think I would harm you, Loki?”

 “As I said, it has been centuries. We have both changed, and may as well be strangers to each other.”

 “Clearly,” she answers in a clipped tone. “Do all strangers rank so low in your eyes?”

 Against all expectations, he feels a stab of guilt, for causing pain to a woman he has not seen in centuries. But then again, she had been dear to him. So beloved.

 To sooth her, he offers: “A lesser woman would have withered away during her banishment. A lesser woman would not have visited me upon her return.”

 “No woman is lesser when it comes to her love.” Her gaze is strong, her head held high as if she were daring him to contradict her.

 “Love… Is that what this is then? After all these centuries, I wonder how you can still feel anything of the sort towards me.” He turns around, walking towards the back of his cell. There he picks up a book, fingers trailing delicately over its spine. “Love, I have discovered these past years, does not hold against strong blows.”

 Except his mother’s, which shone in her eyes even as she visited her fuming son, even as he denied her…

 He pushes that thought away. Not here, not with a witness.

 No more weakness.

 “Mine has endured stronger blows than time,” she says, shaking her head. “The worst of all was knowing that you did not love me as I did you. You still do not”

 He turns. “I cared for you, deeply and well.” He closes his eyes. “But, no, not in the way you would have wished. I was an Odinson then. I could not conceive having any sort of romantic interests in…”

 “I know,” she cuts him off gently. “I know, and I never blamed you for it. I understood, and was content in knowing you cared for me in some measure, even if I wished for more.” She bites her lip then. He remembers that habit of hers, an involuntary gesture whenever her nerves get the better of her. He teased her mercilessly about it, once. She would tease right back, referring to his tendency repeatedly smooth his hair whenever he feels frazzled.

 She never made any mention about his preferred studies, nor about his fighting style.

 His thoughts are interrupted when she resumes speaking. “What of now?”

 “Now?” he furrows his eyebrows in confusion.

 “I am an Odindottir no longer. I am once again in Asgard. There are new opportunities. Would you…consider such a bond between us?”

 No, he wishes to snap. To fall back on cruelty, because it is all he has had for a long time now.  Be gone now, you love-struck fool. I have neither need nor want for you. I do not care about the pathetic yearnings of a naïve girl who only has her quim to offer!

 He wishes it, but he looks at the softness of her expression, the tenderness in her eyes, and he sees Frigga.

 (“ _And am I not your Mother?”  “You’re not.”_ )

 He swallows, forces himself to bear her gaze.

 He cannot harm his Mother again, so he whispers: “I would not… reject the idea.”

 She smiles then, bright and beautiful, and the joy she radiates is so pure and honest that he cannot help but feel warmed by it. He can feel his gaze softening, and the mood of their encounter has just changed drastically.

 He thinks of a trickster boy and a lovely girl hidden underneath a linden tree

 “Let me woo you then, my dearest one.” Her first burst of sentiment has been tempered, for she has most likely learned to be more careful in such dealings. Still, humor shines in her eyes as she says this.

 Almost against his will, the corner of his mouth twitches in amusement. “Woo me? Conventions would dictate otherwise.”

 “Are you truly going to pretend to be concerned with those?” She smirks. “Then let me assure you, my courtship will be as traditional as any other. Baring the obvious detail.”

 “Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. “Then what may I expect courting gift?”

 She leans closer then, placing a hand against the golden force field. “The Realm. I shall give you the Realm, if you would share it with me.”

 He tilts his head slightly. “I do not share,” he warns.

 “Well,” she replies pleasantly, “I suppose you had better learn.”

 

*

 

 What life for the hero, before he began his journey? Who was the princess, before she had been locked in her tower?

 There are no answers to these questions, nor will there ever be. They have no place in the story, you see, and so they are irrelevant.

 The past ceases to exist once the tale begins.

*

 Loki kneels before the All-Father’s throne, hands trapped behind his back as chains prevent him from using his seiðr.

 It is an unpleasant sight, Sigyn thinks, but necessary. Every story needs a beginning, and this one is striking if nothing else.

 She looks at the crowd within the thrones room, nobles, guards, politician and gawkers, all gathered to see the spectacle that is the once Prince. It is all so very crass, and all very reminiscent of the past, but she crushes her anger with cold determination. Let them see him low, let them see him humbled: it will only make their rise more spectacular.

  _Their_ rise, for this is as much for her as it is for him. She knows better than to be selfless now, especially where her love is concerned. In her plans, they both succeed together, but she will not sacrifice herself for his sake.

 The King stands, slamming Gungnir on the floor. Immediately, all eyes are on him.

 “Loki, of Asgard,” he starts, taking care in neither claiming him as his own nor denouncing him as his enemy’s. “For your actions on Midgard, you have been condemned to spend the rest of your natural days in isolation within the dungeons, as declared by me and as approved by the Council of Nine.”

 The once prince keeps his eyes on the ground, in a show of deference and humility. His fists clench behind his back, although none gathered notice with their attention still on the All-Father.

 “However,” Odin continues, “your actions during the Dark Elves’ attack and subsequent battle have earned you some new consideration. During those troubled times,” Sigyn snorts: what a quaint word for invasion and war, “you have proven yourself to be a defender of Asgard and of her people. It is now time for you to prove yourself her servant.”

 A flash of seiðr erupts from his spear, hitting the chains and manacles that bind Loki. Immediately, they vanish. Loki takes this cue to rise and look at his once Father.

 “From this day forward, and until I decree otherwise, you are a citizen of Asgard, to put your life and talents at her disposal. Although your crimes cannot be erased, reparations can be made: our defenses have been shattered by our enemies, and although the Realm is not vulnerable, it is nonetheless exposed.”

 “I task you, Loki, to work for the defense of your home. Wards you shall build, that may not be broken by any enchantment or weapon. Prosperity you shall cater, by putting your mind to the service of those who rule this Realm. Peace among the realms you shall promote, by forging bonds with the Nine for Asgard.”

 “Do this, and your titles and rank shall be returned to you.”

 Loki bows low. “Let it be as you command, My King.” His voice is calm and steady as he speaks.

 As the crowd murmurs around him, he risks as glance towards Sigyn. Her eyes meet his, and she nods solemnly.

 This is their beginning.

 

*

 

 There is a feast, as there usually is. Some things never change, Sigyn muses.

 She sits somewhere within the second table down from the All-Father’s seat; it is hardly a prestigious placement, but it is to be expected. It has the distinct advantage of being well within the eyesight of most guests, allowing her to remind them all of her presence. From that, the whispers commence, speculations about the meaning behind her return. Those who have long been part of this court note the odd timing between her arrival in Asgard and the once-prince’s conditional release.

 The woman next to her is one of them. A gossiper as well, Sigyn is almost certain. Although the two of them are by all appearances holding a conversation about a novel they have both read, her interlocutor keeps making attempts at shifting the conversation towards more current events.

 “Truly, my dear, you are much more cynical than I in your approach!” Mábil Lydikdottir giggles. “The romance between the two characters is uncommon, I grant you, but even in real life, what love can achieve is hardly to be believed.” At that, she glances towards Loki, and Sigyn must resist the urge to sigh. A fool for romance, this one. What happened, and what is between her and Loki can hardly be considered such.

 “Perhaps you are correct,” she says instead. “I would probably do better towards myself if I were to simply let myself enjoy a tale told. Alas, it is not the Vanir way of reading.”

 “It is fortunate you have returned to Asgard then. Books may soon regain a new appeal entirely.”

 “With the palace’s library at my disposal, I do not doubt it for a second. There a books there that cannot be found with Vanaheim’s large collection. Consulting its shelves is one of the first acts I wish to do now that I am here.” With that, she takes a sip of her wine, certain that Mábil will take the bait.

 She is not disappointed. “Truly? And what of your other plans? It has been centuries, after all.”

 Sigyn looks away. “When I first set foot in this realm after so long, I felt the need to go through the city that had once been my home.” Once is the important word, she is of Vanaheim now. “I was… well I suppose you could say I was shocked by what I found. Most of the rubbles have been cleared, true, but the desolation…” She swallows. “I have found more orphans than I thought possible among a race so resilient. I suppose most thought the same, for the orphanage I visited could barely hold all of its charges. It was a painful sight.”

 It isn’t a lie. She despised the court, who have never truly accepted her until it had been convenient for their entertainment. She hates the All-Father, who without a moment’s hesitation destroyed the life that she had built. But towards the people of Asgard she holds no grudge, for they have had no part in her torment. It would talk a darkness of heart she does not possess to be unmoved by the sight of suffering children.

 Moreover, she plans to be Queen of these people some day; she must do right by them.

 “Building a new building would be simple enough, but I am afraid it won’t suffice. Those children are simply much too isolated from the rest of the realm. They grow up within the orphanage, live among themselves and when the time comes for them to leave, they have nothing.”

 “A great sadness indeed,” Mábil murmurs, “to be cut away from your line.”

 And that is a simple fact of Asgard, Sigyn thinks, that an orphan has no true place. The sole hope for a child would be that he possess some uncle or relative willing to keep him, or is rich enough that his place can be maintained through gold. But for one who has no true family left, there is no hope of escaping until adulthood. Aesir simply do not welcome a stranger’s child within their line. Blood will always prevail over bonds.

 Sigyn learned this first hand.

 (The only exception would be Loki. Although his true birth is now known to all, a thousand years being called Odinson and wearing Ás skin are hard to erase from the people’s memories. A handful of years as an outcast will be much simpler to forget.)

 “I believe there is a way out from this,” Sigyn says determinedly. “If only orphanages had more ties with the rest of the villages, if workers were more prone to look for apprentices among the parentless, their future could be much more secure.”

 “And you plan on finding that way? Ambitious,” Mábil comments. “How do you hope to manage such a feat?”

 Sigyn blushes, and it is half-honest. The sheepishness, however, is feigned. “I’ll will work something out.”

 Mábil giggles. “I certainly hope you will! It is a most worthy endeavor!”

 “Perhaps you would seek to assist me, then? I could certainly use any help I might find.”

 “Perhaps,” the Lady says pensively. She twirls a strand of red hair around her fingers. “I cannot think of any way I might at the moment – I have never had a mind for such things. However,” she says with a smile, “do come to me should you think of anything! I would be delighted to be of use!”

 “Thank you, my Lady,” Sigyn says with a true smile. The girl is kind, if nothing else. She can appreciate that.

 “Please, friend, Mábil will do just fine!” At that moment, musicians settle in front of them, and the sound of tambourines and strings grow loud around them.

 “Oh, wonderful,” the woman grumbles, “let us stop our conversation now, for there shall be no way to speak over such noise.”

 The brunette chuckles as she looks at the players. “It is true I am unused to such sounds. Vanir music tends to remain in the background.”

“Truly? Are the instruments any different?”

 And thus their conversation continues on a more light-hearted subject. Sigyn smiles with satisfaction: by this time tomorrow, half the court will be aware of her intentions. It will be such good source of notoriety.

 

*

 

 The halls of the palace haven’t changed since he last walked them, yet Loki cannot help but see some newfound beauty in them. Although they do not belong to him as they once did, they are much more welcoming than they have been in a long time. It makes him fall back into old habits, namely wandering though the building as he thinks.

 Some tasks the All-Father has given him, each of them colossal in their own rights. Vague, as well, conveniently so. When will he have assured enough prosperity? How much peace does he need to promote? By the stipulations he had accepted, there could be no limit to what he is required to do.

 Perhaps that is the point, he thinks bitterly. Odin need never recognize a duty accomplished, thus keeping him on a tight leash for the rest of his life. He would spend his life neither prince nor free, constantly fearing that the King might strike him down once more.

 He could flee, right here and now. Leave this place behind, go far beyond the Nine to a place no Aesir would think to follow. It would be a relief: what has he keeping him here? Who would welcome him? Odin has made his feelings clear. Thor, the fool, has returned to Midgard after refusing to take the throne. Loki wouldn’t have to suffer his misguided attempts at stopping him. Although his…brother may claim to have “hope for him once more” (and oh, all it took was killing the right enemy, how _very_ typical), the simple truth is that Thor cannot accept that the person he once knew is gone. Lies and horrors and grief have reshaped Loki completely, and he knows now he will never be anything approaching a good man. Thor, for all that he claims to love him, cannot see that, much less accept it.

 There was only one person who could welcome him truly, and love him unwaveringly. (He hadn’t believed it then, but he does now, and she is gone, gone and he’ll never be able to tell her.) But she is dead, he has avenged her. There is nothing else. There is no one else –

 He pauses mid-step, leaning against the wall. That isn’t quite true, is it? Sigyn is here, and for reasons he cannot imagine, she seems to want him to stay. She even has initiated an alliance with him, of sorts.

 Unless she is lying, and that is always a possibility. After all, she didn’t seek him out once during the feast, even though it had lasted well over five hours and most guests had left their table to mingle shortly after three had passed. But she never came to see him, even as he stayed put, making idle conversation with some Lord he doesn’t remember the name of.

 He groans when he catches his own thoughts. He sounds like a desperate child, begging for attention. Unacceptable.

 He does not need her, truly. He would have been freed whether she had come or not, and perhaps Odin brought her back only to give him a reason to stay. It wouldn’t surprise him. Whatever the case, he has better things to do than obsess over her during long evenings. Out of the two of them, he is not the love struck fool.

 Love…

 He had accepted her ridiculous offer for a suit, amused by her daring and flattered at the sentiment. And maybe she had been in particular high spirits when she had approached him. That would explain her unbelievable claims, for he cannot accept such foolish an idea. How can she claim to love a man she has not seen in centuries? He is willing to believe her feelings were genuine, once. She would not have acted as she had otherwise. But now? Time wears affection down, so do deeds and rumors. His actions in Asgard and Midgard are sure to have reached her ears.

 He closes his eyes, swallows. How can it be true? How could her love possibly endure all of that?

 How, when Odin’s hadn’t?

 He gets up and storms down the halls, furious at himself. He will not dwell on the past, nor on lacking that which he does not desire. (For he does not. At all.)

 And he has never had any desire for her. She had left, and he had forgotten her. He had moved on, until the whispers had died down and the once Odindottir was but an old subject for the most avid gossipers. He had been fine, and just because she returns lovely as ever ready to offer –

 To offer.

 He sighs, slowing his pace. That is the heart of the matter, is it not? Sigyn came and gave. All Loki has to do is accept, and then mark the gift as his own so that none may take it away.

 He is a creature of greed, a well of unfulfilled desires and a man of boundless selfishness.

 If Sigyn were to truly give him such devotion, if it truly is no lie, then yes, he knows he would not only accept it, but guard it viciously, never to share.

 (Perhaps nothing has truly changed since that day under the tree).

 But, he reminds himself viciously, he has no obligation to return the sentiment, nor does not have the time to.

 With a snarl, he heads towards the library.

 He has duties to attend to.

 

*

 

  _Iwaldi was one of Odin’s closest friends. A wanderer from his early days, a true warrior during his kingship, he was held in high regards by the All-Father. He had come from Vanaheim at the king’s request, with nothing but a satchel of money, his wife and his then young daughter. The All-Father had been amused, and had offered him a mansion right near the palace._

_Iwaldi wandered in the early years of his stay, exploring the earldoms of Asgard and reporting what he found. His travels were long, his rests were short, and Sigyn grew up in her mother’s care, her father but a man who visited often._

_His knowledge of the realm became so great, the King called him to serve in his Council, as_ efnimaerr. _His duties were many, his leisure times were few, and more often than not he was called to some province to reason with a Lord. Sigyn grew still, in a wing within the palace this time._

_And one day he died, his wife and he attacked by some outlaws no one ever identified. All there was left was Sigyn, with no family in Asgard. What happens to the orphaned daughter of a Council member? Is she sent away from the palace, to live in the orphanages that are below her rank? Would some other family take her in, old as she is?_

_The speculations only grew after the funeral, until the All-Father stepped forward. In memory of his friend, and his service to his realm, Odin would take the daughter as his ward._

_And thus, at six hundred years of age, Sigyn gained the tittle of Odindottir._

*

Of course, their first meeting after his release would happen just after he has decided not to concern himself with her.

 Sigyn sits in the back of the room, her back turned to the large window that gives this section most of its light. Her hair is tied back in a bun, rather severe by Aesir and Vanir standards. A functional hairdo, he gathers: judging from the thickness of the tome she has opened, she has been reading for quite some time.

 For the longest time he deliberately ignores her, looking through the shelves for the books he needs. However, his plan turn to dust when he cannot find the most important one, a compilation of all the nobles and their functions at court. It has been to long since he has been cut from Asgard’s society, his knowledge is no longer accurate he is certain. He needs that tome.

 It takes him a second to realize it is the one set in front of Sigyn.

 Of course it is.

 He glares at her half-heartedly, only to have her lift her eyes to meet his, and smirk. Without breaking eye-contact, she deliberately turns a page before looking back down, the picture of studiousness.

 He is grudgingly impressed.

 It is for that reason alone that he walks up to her, or so he tells himself. He settles himself in the chair across from her. She doesn’t look up as she murmurs: “May I help you?” Her tone is demurely polite, but the glint in her eyes betrays her mirth.

 “I believe you may,” he replies smoothly, “although it is well mannered of you to ask for permission.”

 She snorts, shaking her head. “I shall give this to you when I am done, not a moment sooner.”

 “That seems fair, if remarkably unsharring. When can I expect that to be?”

 “I know not,” she says cheerily. “What a treat it will be to find out!”

 In other circumstances, he would have glowered at her mockery. However, it has been much too long since he has had any decent conversationalist to exchange with, and Sigyn appears to be far more than decent. So he merely smirks as he says: “Only half as much as obtaining the book myself.”

 “Come now, Loki,” she chides, “I thought you more patient than this.”

 “I can wait, when it is needed, but I also have a healthy distaste for inefficiency.” He tilts his head towards the tome. “I would wager you intend to go through every page in order to find relevant information. A tedious process, wouldn’t you say?”

 “I might,” she answers casually. “However, I am too unfamiliar with Asgard’s inner working to discriminate my readings.”

 He leans back in his chair. “I imagine you could ask for help from any patron of this place. The ignorant seldom come here.”

 She stills for a moment, before slowly raising her eyes. “I will not ask for help from any of _them._ ” She says nothing more, but the ice within her eyes is more than enough.

 He studies, she remains silent, and they remain that way for a long time.

 He understands why she will not accept any assistance. He himself would rather burn a thousand times than accept help from those who humiliated or wronged him.

 They are the same in that regard, although perhaps Sigyn is more pragmatic in her hate. She has made no attempt on Odin’s life, after all.

“Would you accept my assistance, My Lady?”

 He is uncertain of why he offers, and is almost certain she will reject his offer. (By all rights she should, for his hand in her humiliation had been so much bigger than the mere murmurs of the court.)

 (Some nights he allows himself to feel guilty about that)

 She contemplates him, one eyebrow raised. “Would you offer it?”

 He walks to settle next to her, reaches for the pages and turns them when she offers no objection. “Your main concern, as you most likely know, will be to distinguish true power from the posts given to keep some half-ambitious nuisance placated. As a general rule, you need not concern yourself with a member of the House of a Hundred.”

 “I remember that much,” Sigyn murmurs. “I wonder if any of them realize they are expected to debate, and nothing more.”

 “Strictly speaking, their role is to give a detailed account of any situation and their recommendation on how to deal with it to the Council. That is enough to give them the pretense of usefulness. I suppose that you could deign to remember Porsi Róison, seeing as he presides that House.”

 “He’s still alive then? He was old even when we were young.”

 “He still has a few centuries left in him,” Loki shrugs. “He not a brilliant man, but he does not get in the way, at least.”

 “Noted. I took an interest in the members of the Council, of course, seeing as I will need their approval for whatever endeavor I make.” Sigyn leans back and stretches her arms. “I have met a few of them already, they seem like a competent folk. Is there anyone else I should be aware of?”

 He hums in thought. “The trade guilds have grown stronger in the last couple centuries, and show no sign of weakening. You would do well to forge some ties with them. As would I for that matter.” He lets her turn the pages towards the desired information, and curses. “Damn, most of their leaders have changed. I know none of them.”

 “I do, actually.” She points at the name that’s third from the top. “Eiya Gunnrjardottir. I have met her a few times during her visits to Vanaheim. A strong character, although not always the gentlest when it comes to dealing with others.”

 “How odd, coming from a merchant. I would have thought she would be more diplomatic.”

 “She gets impatient at times,” Sigyn comments. “But she is still skilled at her trade. It is why her guild is still the third richest in Asgard, I imagine.”

 He contemplates that information for a long moment, before raising his eyes to meet Sigyn’s. “Is she ambitious?”

 She smirks knowingly, an eager spark in her eye. “Extremely.”

 He can feel his own sharp grin forming on his face. “Her guild could easily become the strongest in Asgard, were she to be supported by power from the palace.”

 “And if she were to use her own influence to build that power, it would be a fair trade, wouldn’t you say?” Sigyn replies. “A good merchant knows when to make an investment. She would be very useful to me.”

 “To me as well.” He frown in mock concern. “I hope we are not going to fight over her. That would be a disappointing conclusion.”

 She flashes her teeth at him. “Here I thought we could _share._ Have you learned how to do that yet, or shall I give you more time?”

 He snorts despite himself. She always enjoyed bringing up his previous statements back against him whenever she could. It made for a nice challenge, to make sure never to give her any ammunition.

 He rather missed this.

 He shrugs. “Well, if we are going to be allies, I suppose some concessions can be made.”

 “Oh, allies are we?” she teases. “What a wonderful step up from “strangers”! And so soon! Can I hope to be promoted to friendly acquaintance within the next month?”

 “Play the game well and I shall consider it.”

 “I am beside myself with impatience.”

 He smiles and leans back towards the tome towards the next page of interest. The two of them work well together, and finish within a couple hours they finish what would have taken much longer had they been on their own. So they talk, about the court, the selection in the library, the merit of Vanir food as opposed to Aesir.

 It is only when the servants come to light candles that Loki realizes how late it has become. It felt like no time at all.

 

*

 

 A collection of truths that won’t make it into the tale:

        It takes several months for Sigyn and Loki to get their footing. That time is spent meeting the right people, learning the rhythm of the court, attending feasts and ceremonies. It is overall a dull affair.

            The All-Father is seen mulling on top of Hlidskjalf, or quietly talking to Heimdall. He sends Huginn and Muninn to another realm, and listens closely to their reports. In all three cases, he meets the news given not with alarm, but with simple disappointment.

            In the ruins of Jotunheim, the Jotnar slowly starve to death.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo.... Over four months since the first chapter....Hope it ends up being worth the wait.^^
> 
> No beta, all mistakes are mine.

 

“Lovely maiden in the green dress!” Almóðr calls out.

Sigyn laughs as she turns towards the butcher. “Are you talking to me, good man?”

The merchant smiles. “I don’t see anyone half as lovely, or a dress half as green.”

“Or another potential customer who has yet to buy anything.”

Almóðr’s bark of laughter is loud and frank. “Aye, that is also true!” He gestures towards his stall. “Although you should look at my fine products, and tell me you do not want any of it.”

She looks over the selection, eyes resting over a particularly appealing flank of ox. It is an uncommon meat in Vanaheim, and one she has quite missed. Surely one of her servants will know how to prepare it? “That would be lying,” she finally replies, indicating her choice.

“Good lass,” the man replies, taking the slab of flesh and preparing his knives.

As he settles to work, the two of them continue their conversation. “I trust it has been a good morning for you?”

“Aye, it has been,” he answers before bringing his cleaver down. “’ T’is grueling work, carrying all this, but it’s my work, and I enjoy it.”

“Surely you could find someone to help you with it?” she inquires innocently. “An apprentice of some sort?”

“Oh? And where shall I find myself one?”

She sighs then, pushing the sadness she feels to the forefront. “The Kurse’s attack has left many orphans in Asgard.”

The man’s demeanor immediately becomes more somber. “Aye. A most evil deed.”

“Of course, there would have been many more has it not been for Lord Loki’s intervention. I suppose we should be thankful for that.”

“I hadn’t expected to find him there,” Almóðr admits almost reluctantly. “I had thought that Prince Thor would be the one to slay it.”

Keeping her face blank, Sigyn answers. “From my understanding, he had been occupied hiding the Midgardian in the palace.”

The man’s lips thin in discontentment and disapproval. Satisfied with that reaction, she decides to refocus the conversation. “Still, there are many parentless in Asgard now. Perhaps one of them could help you with your work?”

He laughs in reply. It is neither mocking or cynical, but completely genuine. That makes it all the worse for her, makes it hard keep her rising anger in check. “Really, lass? And how would I pay for such a charge?”

“Would you have to?”

“Well, I would have to feed him, wouldn’t I? And give him clothes, and house him if he is to learn by my side.” He shakes his head. “There is much gold to be spent on teaching a brat, and without parents to give money for my trouble, it is hardly worth the effort.”

These are not the words she had been hoping for, but Sigyn has gained the standing she has in Vanaheim by letting a defeat vanquish her. She mulls over the words, their implication. “If you were to receive money for taking a charge, would it seem a fair bargain?”

“I s’pose,” he says, obviously trying to indulge her. “But who would pay for an orphan?”

“Who indeed,” she agrees, but she already knows the answer.

A Vanir Lord desperate enough for social advancement that he will try his luck with the All-Father’s discarded ward, Sigyn thinks not too kindly. A poor strategist, who was fortunate enough that his intended pawn turned out to be quite the game player. Still, Lord Albjórn had been kind to her during her stay in his household, for all his self-interest. Once she had come of age, she had arranged for him to be sent in a higher position in Vanaheim’s third city, whilst she remained in the capital in his old mansion. He had been thrilled, and she had been freed.

The butcher finishes preparing her order, their conversation going back to a lighter subject. It is only interrupted as he gives her the package: a messenger from the palace runs up towards Sigyn.

“My Lady,” the man says, slightly out of breath. “The All-Father has sent me for you. He bids you to come to him before the throne at your earliest convenience.”

As Almóðr sputter, Sigyn bristle. “At your earliest convenience” is only a veiled way of saying “as soon as possible”. Rude, by most regards, and an all too keen reminder that she is once again a subject of Asgard, and therefore at his mercy. “Of course,” she answers in a still voice. “I will be there as soon as I can.”

“Wait… you are highborn,” Almóðr finally blurts out. “Very high born, for the All-Father to call upon you… My Lady…”

She smiles a friendly smile, even though her insides are burning with anger. “I’m sorry, will that be a problem?”

“No, no of course not, my Lady!” he answers in wonderment. “It’s just no highborn ever comes down here…”

Of course, that had been the intent. She had always intended on revealing herself eventually, sooner rather than later. She is already well liked among the people here, they can relate to her. The next order of business had been that they could look up to her, see her as a possible champion.

Have them believe you can work for them, and they will work for you.

With that in mind, she focuses on her breathing, making it deliberate and slow in order to cool the unproductive bristling within her.

Honestly forces her to admit that this messenger’s arrival is actually better than anything she could have devised on her own. Having her status revealed by other hands than hers grant her an air of humbleness on top of everything else, which can only help her with these people.

It is impossible for the King not to have known that. He is bound to have kept a close watch on her following her return.

Therefore, she must recognized that Odin has done her a favor today. The admission leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

She plasters on a sweet smile on her face, and with one last gracious salute, makes her way back towards the palace and the man she hates above all else.

 

*

_The audience between the two is nothing note-worthy. A private setting, nothing but the King, his subject and the Einherjar that serve as loyally as ever. Meaningless words are exchanged, Sigyn cold and polite, Odin formal and restrained. Nothing of substance is discussed, and when the two part Sigyn cannot phantom the reason behind the summon._

_Here is another audience, much more thrilling but part of an entirely different story:_

_The All-Father’s hall is crowded this time, more than it has been in decades. Loud, brutish nobles come to gawk and stare at the girl in the center of the room, older women shake their head and mumble in disgust, younger men leer lewdly. The place is crawling with people, bringing with them the stink of hypocrisy and moral filth. Sigyn stands proud in the center, knowing that through her isolation she will not be stained._

_The King speaks of crimes against property, of unacceptable behavior and of her own unworthiness. He punishes her, because she is as his child and therefore from her deeds springs perversion. He casts her out, because she is not his child and therefore he can wash his hands of her._

_Iwaldidottir, Odin states. Odindottir, the crowd murmurs. She is both, and neither. She is her father’s daughter, both of them, so she stands proud even as she stands alone._

_Keep your head high, Sigyn, keep your rage close. It will burn away the girl you were, and from her ashes Sigyn will be born._

_Do not look at the crowd, Sigyn, keep your eyes on the throne. The one who wish to see is not there, the one you want will not come for you._

*

 

It is a marvel, the power of a king, Loki muses. Barely six months ago, he had been the most hated creature in all the Realm, an enemy to be shut away and forgotten. Now, with the proper amount of bloodshed and a word from the All-Father, he is heading the team dedicated to constructing Asgard’s defenses.

“We cannot use a conventional power source,” Kvasir states as he runs his hand over their calculations. “Nothing easily destroyable, and nothing that must be maintained.”

“The Tesseract could work,” mumbles Sveid. “Unlimited power in our Vaults, it would be a waste not to use it.”

“You would use the Tesseract as a power source? How very Midgardian of you,” Loki chides, almost scoffing at the notion. “Besides, it is unwise to use an Infinity Stone, it inspires much too much greed in people’s hearts.”

He glances at the people surrounding him, taking in their reaction. Most do not react beyond an approving grunt, but a few raises an eyebrow or grumble slightly. It isn’t difficult for Loki to divine why: he himself has been of the greedy who chase infinite power. It is hard to forget.

But the All-Father has decided that he would be welcome again, and Midgard is such a small consideration to the immortals of Asgard, and so they do not speak up, and so they will forget in time.

He can wait.

Looking back down at the plans they have drawn up, Loki taps his fingers against his mouth thoughtfully. Of all the tasks the All-Father has given him, this is without a doubt the most straightforward one. Building wards is a simple task to comprehend.

However, it does not make it any easier. Asgard’s previous defenses were the strongest in all the Realms, and yet the Dark Elves had managed to tear them down. What he creates will have to go beyond simple walls, they will have to be able to evade, deflect, twist and rise anew.

He will create Asgard’s shield in his image. They will all owe their lives to him, more than they already do.

And it is in selfish thoughts that an idea come to him, as his bests usually do.

“The paths between worlds, in the pores of Yggdrasil,” he says thoughtfully, “they are bursting with dark energy.”

Kvasir’s quick mind catches on to his meaning almost immediately. “Chaotic in nature, but ever present. If we could harvest and use such power….” He smiles slightly. “Our shield would be rooted with Yggdrasil itself. It would be unshakable.”

“And if we were to use such paths as pillars,” Loki adds enthusiastically, “then they would become twisted from the weight of the shield, and become unusable!” Except of course those paths that would be spared from such treatment, which he plans to carefully select for his use. He has never been one to relinquish an advantage.

“It is brilliant,” the scholar whispers, a gleam in his eyes. “We would be assuring defenses on both fronts.”

“But to build such a construct, we would need to access those paths to carve our runes!” some fool objects, someone whose name Loki cannot be bothered to remember. “How could we…”

“Prince Loki is adept at walking those paths,” Kvasir interrupts without looking up. “I am certain he will be capable.”

Prince Loki…

It is not his official title, not anymore, but what does it matter? It is how Kvasir views him, Kvasir who had always been fond of him, had held him as one of his favorite pupils.

Kvasir, whose age and knowledge make him the tacit ruler of Asgard’s scholars.

No one comments, no one even blinks twice. But there is a shift in the air as all those around him silently reconsider their views about him. Kvasir’s word is not law, but it bears weight, so much weight because the Aesir so love having a leader to fall behind.

It is all Loki can do not to grin in triumph. Today is a fine victory, silent but powerful.

“If we are to construct such wards,” Sveid finally says, breaking the silence, “then it would be wise to have a buffer between the anchoring points in the paths and the Realm. Something to absorb any eventual outpour of seiðr, to keep the surrounding areas safe.”

“Aye,” Kvasir agrees. “Osmium should do the trick. The dwarves should be able to provide.”

Loki purses his lips. He knows the two of them are right, but that does not mean he has to be pleased about it. It may be petty of him, but he does not care to be reminded of those who still reject him seconds after being called Prince once more.

The only way to legally secure a steady inflow of stones would be to go through Nidavelir’s ambassador, Eitri. Being the chief of this new project, as well as burdened with the tasks Odin appointed him with, Loki is the one who should approach him.

Unfortunately, his relationship with the dwarf has always been… tense. Too much deceit and near death experiences to ever be able to be anything even resembling cordial.

But it is his duty, and he cannot afford to shy away from it.

With luck, the diplomat will be reasonable.

 

*

 

Eitri had not been reasonable.

A mere minute into their conversation, the dwarf all but spat in his face, cursing him and laughing at the idea of any partnership between the two. It is an all too clear reminded that his position is by no means secure: a diplomat would never have dared disrespect a prince so, not even a palace official. But Loki is, strictly speaking, a prisoner on parole. No one will truly take offense in that dirt-kissing bastard’s disrespect.

It is with a foul mood that he mulls over that latest development, as well as contemplate his next move. The small patio he is in is peaceful, but that does little to calm him.

He needs the osmium, that much is certain. The entire project is hopeless otherwise. However, if he cannot convince Eitri, he will most likely have little luck with the dwarves still in Nidavellir: it is always easier to deny a request when one lives realms away.

The trade federation, perhaps? No, he thinks bitterly, that will not do either. Although Gunnrjardottir could be persuaded to make a demand for him, word would spread fast that he has need for that particular material, and it would not be a great leap to conclude that she is acting in his stead. That would destroy her credibility, and thus his influence through her. Back to where he started.

Pinching his brows, he considers his different options, and finds them all lacking. Youthful indiscretions coming back to bite him, how embarrassing.

“You seem worried, dearest. I do hope no one has been too difficult with you.”

He doesn’t even bother looking at Sigyn, certain he will see a highly amused smirk if he does so. “Such a specific hope you have there. It is almost as if you have a particular situation in mind.”

“Rumors of the Asgardian court,” she replies, settling herself next to him, leaning against the wall. “Not so vicious as those found in Vanaheim, but I do worry none-the-less.”

“Listening to rumors, Sigyn? I thought you smarter than that.”

“Even the greatest lies have a grain of truth.” She looks at him pointedly. “Don’t you know?”

“Of course,” he responds blandly.

“Besides, rumors are entertaining, if nothing else,” she continues airily. “Why, I have heard the most amusing tale about a dwarf today. No lip sewing this time around, but -”

“I do so hope there is a point to all this,” he cuts her off sharply, before cursing inside. She had been so obviously baiting him, he should no better than to answer.

She smiles sweetly. “I’ve heard some distressing news about our dear Lord Eitri. I do believe I know something that may help your case.”

“How wonderful.”

“If only I could remember what it is…”

“Of course.” He looks at his nails in practice nonchalance. “What is your price?”

“One efnimaerr is standing in my way. I would have you take care of it.”

“And you cannot, because?”

She huffs in frustration, though discretely. “Much like you, this is a matter of personal affinity. He does not hold me in high regards. And since he oversees all public spending within the capital, I cannot bypass him.”

“Ah yes, your lovely little orphanage project.” He rolls his eyes. “How very noble of you.”

“Isn’t it,” she answers dryly. “Help me with this problem, and I will help you with yours.”

“In charge of funding, you say,” he drawls, “you are referring to lord Fenrirson, are you not?”

“I am so elated that out session in the library has not gone to waist.”

“Tell me,” he continues, ignoring her jest completely, “how do you expect me to interfere without making it appear as if the disgraced prince is much too close to Asgard’s gold?”

“You are currently leaning against Asgard’s gold,” she sneers, jerking her head towards the wall, “it is a little late for that.”

“Cute,” he concedes, “but hardly convincing.”

“I do not need to convince you. You will do this in secrecy, and gladly so. And once I am satisfied that you have aided me, I will help you in return. It is a fair bargain.”

“Fair, perhaps, but also risky.” In truth, Loki is being more difficult that he would be with another. He simply likes challenging Sigyn so, enjoys so much how she does not back down, nor give up and berate him.

How far will you follow me, sister-mine?

“You have given me no good reason to help you,” he continues. “It is a poor sale.”

She rolls her eyes. “Please, Loki, it has been a week. If you had any solution ready at hand, you would have gone through with it by now. You are scrambling, and I am giving you an opportunity to get out of the situation.” She straightens herself, gazing straight into his eyes, and her expression is a testament to just how seriously she means her next words. “Do this, to prove that I can trust you.”

Keeping his face blank, he tries very hard to ignore the sting he feels at her words. He pushes himself up, keeping his back to her and his head up in feigned nonchalance.

He knows she is not fooled.

“Trust...Are we not allied, Sigyn? I thought you trusted me already.”

“I did, once. It was a bad habit I have cured myself from.” There is no bite to her words, it is merely a cold statement of fact. Whatever hurt she once felt is long gone. (He wonders how she does it). “I think you will agree that I have proven far more trustworthy than you.”

Silence falls upon them as they both digest the truth of her words, and all in the implications beneath. (But she cannot know, not truly, for otherwise she wouldn’t be here, would never have come down to see him in the dungeons). It is an odd contemplation for Loki: he does not regret his past actions, and tries hard to push away the shame that still creeps into his heart.

“How strange,” he murmurs. “I was once told that there could be no love without trust.”

These words are meant for both of them.

Sigyn glares, as he expected her to. She always does, whenever her feelings are called into question. It is a recurring weakness, one that reassures Loki immensely.

Her next words, however, are unexpected.

“If that were true, then why would you love Odin?”

He stops breathing entirely, can feel his stomach drop as blood drains from his face. His heart beats faster as his vision reddens, and for a moment he hates her, truly and strongly, because how dare she, how dare…?

“I do not,” he grits out. He resists the urge to turn heels and march down the hall and away from her. That would be admitting defeat.

Perhaps sensing that she has gone too far, she looks away. She offers no apology though, no does she makes any soothing gesture.

What she does do is voice the same reassurance she has told him for the past months. “I do love you, you know.”

“Why?”

The question slips out of him. His lips make poor warden for his words, shaken as he is by her accusation. For a moment, he freezes in horror. That he would reveal… to think that…

Her eyes meet his once again, her gaze shocked, and a little side. He does not break away, even as his eyes start to sting with tears he no longers possesses, and as he holds his breath dreading what answer or insight she may now possess and give.

“Can I count on your support, Loki?”

He blinks, exhaling in both relief and shock.

She hasn’t commented on his lapse. Rather, she ignores it completely, and her question is a silent but great gift bestowed unto him.

She has seen how terribly he has tripped and instead of using it to make him fall, she offers a hand for him to stand again.

That, of all things, seals it for him.

“I will be of whatever help I may,” he says quietly. After a moment’s hesitation, he bends forward, and takes her hand in his. It is the first time he has touched her, truly touched her and not just accidently brushed her in hallways or during functions. He can hear her breath hitch. “I shall see you later, my Lady,” he murmurs, brushing ever so slightly his lips against her hand.

A thanks, and perhaps something more.

 

*

_The mortal have created strange tales around their once-gods, but not everything is construct and not every myth is baseless. Thor has a hammer, that is no lie. Freyja is fair, and no mistake can be made about that fact. Sigyn is known for her fidelity and devotion, and those are qualities she indeed possesses._

_Here is the error these Midgardians have made: Sigyn is loyal, Sigyn is devoted, and they somehow believe this means she is pure of heart._

_They are wrong, of course, and Loki laughs at those tales more still than he does at those of horses or hammer-stealing giants._

_He means every word he told her: there is a fine line between love and obsession. One is earned, the other is not._

_Whatever reasons may have existed for him winning her affections in the first place, surely a thousand years apart would have destroyed what was barely a romance._

_And perhaps she loves him so because otherwise her exile would have been caused by nothing more than a passing infatuation. And perhaps Sigyn has found that loving Loki and hating Odin went hand in hand (and she already did one so beautifully, so why not the other?)._

_In truth, he does not care. He will reflect on such things, centuries after their reunion, when their place is secure and she is sleeping besides him. His beautiful, intelligent wife, heavy with their children and whom he could never consider pure hearted. He loves her so._

_He will kiss her temple one night, and think that maybe she had never been pure hearted, not even as a child._

_A pure-hearted girl would have never kissed her brother in broad daylight, after all. Not as lovers do._

*

 

“Lord Fenrirson,” Loki greets pleasantly, in complete odds with how he has all but ambushed the man after a council meeting.

The man in question stiffens at the greeting, before looking around him to see if there are any witnesses he can turn to. There aren’t, of course: this section of the palace is almost entirely dedicated to the offices of the efnimaerr that serve Asgard. A dull place to be for most of the court, and so it is almost always empty save for the politicians who have a seat in the Council. Loki himself has little place here, his official title giving him not true reason to roam these halls. However, he knows that no one will truly question his presence here.

Having once been a prince certainly makes one’s life easier.

Fenrirson turns around, tilting his head slightly, barely a greeting but just enough not to be rude. “Lord Loki,” he says, spitting out the title with as much contempt as he can muster. “I hadn’t expected to find you here.”

“Yet here I am. Might I have a word?”

“You already are, are you not?”

“As you are aware, the All-Father, our King, has tasked me with promoting Asgard’s prosperity,” Loki continues, wilfully ignoring the man’s rudeness. “As I am certain you understand, such a state does not translate itself only by the gold in its vaults, but also by -”

“Say no more,” the man sneers. “You are here for Iwaldidottir.”

Loki had been informed of his hostility towards Sigyn, of course, but he is still taken aback by the sheer venom in the man’s voice as he says her name. His eyes narrow. “It is a worthwhile and noble pursuit, I am sure you’ll agree.”

Fenrirson barks out a laugh, loud and mocking. His expression is pure scorn. “What nobility can there be in such a Vanir whore?”

Loki freezes. Or rather, his muscles lock, his sights dims around the edge until all his focus is on the miserable little man. “Careful, my Lord,” he bites out. “Such slander is unbecoming for even the lowest of cur, much less a member of the Council.”

“It is no slander if it is the truth,” Fenrirson sneers back. “And it is as a member of the Council that I act in defense of Asgard.”

“Defense against what?”

“Against the degeneration of our morals,” the Lord snaps. “Whatever liberties or perversions other Realms expose themselves to have no place in Asgard. No honor can come from souls who would commit such acts, or subject themselves to it! I will not tolerate it, and if it weren’t for the All-Father’s decree I would not tolerate her!”

In truth, Loki can think of many acts done in Asgardians bedrooms that would most likely make Sigyn’s did pale in comparison. But then, not everyone is subjected to as close a scrutiny or as demanding standards as those close to the King, and it had always been about what Sigyn did just as much as about who Sigyn was.

And Asgard has always been so prompt to remember morals if it allowed for a scandal.

The smile Loki gives him is little more than baring teeth. “You think highly of yourself.”

“She would have me give her the means to place children under her care, children whose parents fell victim of the Kursed’s attack. I find the very notion sickening,” he spits out, “that we should place such poor souls in the hands of an incestuous slut.”

Fenrirson looks at him, waiting for a reaction. Loki gives him none, merely watching him coldly. The Lord pales, but his foolish pride bans him from backing down. “Is that all, Fenrirson?” Loki purrs.

The patronizing tone makes the man fume, as Loki knew it would. More unexpected, however, is just how daring he becomes because of it. “Not all, Laufeyson,” he says with a self-satisfied expression that merely shows how pathetic he truly is. “After all, for her to consort with a Jotun, she must be keen to partake in bestiality as well.”

The first seconds after Loki hears those words are spent in a storm of rage, vengeance, shame and hate. How dare he, how dare he speak that way to a Prince, to him, so much stronger than he will ever be. How foolish, how ludicrous that he would think… And Sigyn…

He can feel ice creeping through him, a feeling long familiar but only recently explained, and so, so good. His seiðr curls around him, invisible but felt, and he knows he that soon he will be getting paler and paler as his eyes start glowing.

But no, no, that will not do. Nothing so base, nothing so brutal.

What would Sigyn think?

He forces himself to contain it all, schooling his features in an indifferent mask. He is still trembling, though, and surely enough Fenrirson takes it as a victory, that he has managed to rattle the Silvertongue.

No matter, let him think as he will.

Loki’s success will only be made sweeter when the man realizes just how wrong he was.

 

*

_Frigga had been halfway through her newest tapestry when the doors to her chambers burst open._

_Fear had gripped her heart for a short moment, for such daring could only be justified by the direst of emergencies._

_Fear had morphed into near-panic when there she saw her youngest, pale and shivering and breathing much too fast._

_“Loki!” she cried out, rushing to meet him. “My son, what is wrong?!”_

_He merely shook his head, hand reaching out to her to grab the fabric of her dress. “I’m sorry…” he gasped out, “I didn’t want to, I didn’t mean to...I’m sorry…”_

_“Loki? Loki!” She grabs both his arms gently but firmly in an attempt to steady him. “What happened, my son?”_

_What did you do, she almost asks, but she knows those words will do nothing to calm him down._

_Her dark-haired boy merely shakes his head. “Please don’t tell father….” he mumbles. “He’ll punish her, or me, but we can fix this…. Please don’t tell him!” His pleadings turn more and more desperate._

_“Punish who, Loki?” Putting her hand under his chin, she forces him to meet her eyes. “Who do you wish to protect from your Father?”_

_Loki pinches his lips, looking to the side before breaking. “Sigyn,” he whispers, like a horrid confession. “But… She didn’t mean anything by it...she wouldn’t! Please…”_

_In the end, she never does get any clear answer from her son, for he is too frazzled and shocked to give any coherent answer beyond a plea for clemency._

_She doesn’t need him to tell her anything though, because servants see and servants speak, and soon enough the truth is known to her._

_Frigga is the patron of motherhood, of family. There are perversions she will not tolerate._

_She will see that girl out of her house._

 

*

 

In the end, it is easy enough.

Loki is a shape-shifter, though he often favors simple glamours. He may have lost the habit these past few years, but it is easy enough to learn again how to take on a new shape. To become a fly on the wall, as it were.

No politician can have any long career without some “moral compromise”, and very few men can be in a position of power and not abuse the privilege. Fenrirson is not one of them. It is easy enough to discover some information he would prefer remain secret, a dirty tale well-worth a place on the Council.

There are many men of ambition within the palace’s walls. So many who would sit in the Council, if only the opportunity would arise. It is easy to find among them one young still, with a misplaced sense of honor to match his ambition, and who would be more than willing to grant a few favors to whoever would be responsible for his good fortune.

So yes, in the end, it is easy enough. Almost disappointingly so. 

(The only way for matters to go so smoothly is with the King’s autorisation. That one Council member could so swiftly be replaced by another means that Odin did not once do anything to stop it, perhaps even encouraged it and that… is not something Loki is ready to consider.)

 

*

 

Here is a truth known to any storyteller: the simplest tales are the most successful.

Monsters are fought, Princesses are rescued, and there is but one Prince and one Beast, and the Kingdom is just and its enemies deserve their inevitable downfall.

There is no talk of redemption, for the hero never falters, and the villain cannot be anything else but what he is. The people do not care for complexities.

Here is a truth known to Sigyn and Loki: you must give the people what they want.

 

*

 

There is a some delight in walking with a man on her arm, Sigyn thinks with a certain surprise.

Perhaps it is because of the picture the two of them form, almost a caricature of an ideal couple. Perhaps it is the setting, for the day is warm and the streets are lively, and she knows herself to look quite lovely in her green dress.

Perhaps it is because of this man, the one at whose side she had imagined herself when she was still young and foolish. Stupid dreams of a stupid child, but maybe that little girl is not quite as dead as she thought?

It does not matter. She is enjoying herself, and she refuses to let anything deter her from that.

Not even Loki himself.

“You should try to smile, you know,” she berates him gently. “It is not nearly as painful as you seem to think it is.”

“I am out of practice, my Lady,” he replies with a completely lever voice. “I fear the strain on the muscles would wear me out too fast.”

“I cannot tell if you are being witty or simply depressing. Probably both.” She turns her head to look up to his face, as small smile gracing her lips. “Come on, I thought you would have some cause for celebration! Your endeavors are going quite well, I’ve heard.”

He rolls his eyes. “If this is an unsubtle way of commenting on Lord Fenrirson’s fate…”

“Oh, not at all,” she interrupts joyfully. “Although speaking of the man, I am surprised he suddenly decided to retire from political life. Whatever spurred that decision?”

“Some hidden virtue within his character, most likely.” The reply is said in a light tone, but she can see the small smirk of satisfaction threatening to form at his lips. It makes her smile wider.

“Most likely, yes.” Turning back to face the street, she tugs his arm slightly so that they can make their way to the city center. “But no, I was referring to your efforts to design new wards for our fair Realm.”

“You sound smug, Sigyn, you may wish to be careful.” Loki’s expression is the picture of disapproval, but his eyes are sparkling with mirth. “One may think you have had a hand in it.”

“Would they?” she asks innocently.

He chuckles, shaking his head. They stop for a moment, allowing a couple of guards to pass in front of them. There is no unrest in Asgard, but the Dark Elves’ attack has left the people shaken, and regular patrols are an easy balm to spread.

“Allright, I will give in,” he says with a sigh. “What did you do to move Eitri?”

“Who says I did anything?”

“His sudden willingness to grant far more material than is even necessary.” He groans. “Come on, Sigyn, I do enjoy playing this game, but we were both present when the agreement was made. Why deny what we both know to be true?”

Because I do not feel like being kind to you right now, Sigyn thinks but does not say. She feels like letting him work a little, like reaping some form of petty revenge.

However, she has prides herself on being able to go beyond her immediate desires (a skill that she learned much too late in life, as it turned out), so she grants him some mercy. “I introduced him to a lovely girl. He was quite taken with her.”

And Loki, dearest, smartest Loki, understand immediately. “Mábil?” he asks, before huffing out a laugh that is partly amusement and mainly disturbance. “The poor girl.”

She raises her eyebrows at his almost uncomfortable expression. “Really, Loki? You don’t even know her.”

“True, but I would not wish the dwarf upon anyone. His appetites are vicious, and his proclivities are… extreme.”

“Actually, dearest,” she croons, voice sweet as poison, “he is only fond of lip-sewing when you are involved.”

Loki’s steps hitch for a second, his grip on her arm tightening to an almost painful degree. It is not to keep his balance, and they both know it, so Sigyn doesn’t even let herself wince at the constriction.

Her love looks at her, eyes narrowing dangerously. “That,” he hisses, “was unnecessary.”

“I do not appreciate your judgment,” she answers icily. “What I did was for you ; it was the swiftest method possible, and one that has benefited you nicely. Do not come and pretend you are worth any better.”

His eyes narrow minutely, but eventually the mask of amical politeness reasserts itself, and his grips loosen. “What I said was not an expression of distaste for your methods, but merely of my disgust for the dwarf,” he says in a clipped but respectful voice, because he will never apologize and this is the closest he will come to it.

Not that she expects anything more, or even demands it. Her little jab did hit a sore sport, after all.

“Mábil did say she wished to help,” she shrugs. “But I agree, the disgusting little man was all but drooling when I introduced the two of them. Unsurprising, when he all but paid for her like cattle afterwards.”

It is an unpleasant affair, when she thinks about it. Eitri is, in his own words, a “persistent hunter”, and seems to take rejection only as a challenge. Added to that his lack of shame when it comes to pursue what he covets, and poor Mábil has had a miserable time at whenever she comes across the dwarf, an occurrence that has only grown more and more frequent.

Perhaps Sigyn should find a way to make it up to the poor woman somehow. Mábil did offer herself as a friend, after all, and Sigyn does appreciate that.

The girl merely had the misfortune of being the most convenient resource at the time.

“Does she know?” Loki asks eventually, “Is she angry at you, to have subjected her to the attentions of such a slimy man?”

“I introduced her to a foreign diplomat, I could hardly know what would come of it.” They arrive in the town square, still filled with people despite it not being the day of the market. “She comes to me to tell me her woes, and I listen to my dear friend with as much compassion as I am able.”

The dark-haired man nods once. “If her situation becomes too dire, then I suppose someone could always step in and assist her.”

Sigyn hums. “I imagine she would be grateful, to whoever would be her savior.”

She looks up once more with a smile, and her heart warms to see him smile in return.

“Lady Sigyn!”

The voice cuts through the crowd, breaking what could almost have been a moment between the two of them. Sigyn pushes back her frustration and disappointment as she turns with a smile. “Dana! How lovely to see you!”

The little girl in front of them beams, blond hair bouncing behind her as she runs towards the pair. Her knees and hands are covered in the dirt and grime that come from playing in the streets, but like any girl her age, she pays them no mind at all ; when she reaches her target, she hugs tightly at Sigyn’s legs, spreading mud all over her skirt.

“I missed you, Lady Sigyn!” Dana says, somehow both pouting and joyful. “There are too many classes, and I no longer see you when you come to visit Papa!”

“I know, sweet girl, I know,” Sigyn replies, shaking her head fondly. “I have missed you as well.”

“Indeed she has,” Loki intervenes, the corner of his lips twitching in amusement as he looks at Sigyn. “She has done nothing but talk about you these past weeks.”

“Really?” the girl asks, excited and flattered.

“I promise. I have heard much about you, Lady Dana. It is an honor to meet you.” Leaning forward, he takes one of the girl’s hands, and presses his lips to it in the most formal of fashion. The exaggeration makes Dana snicker, then laugh outright when Loki winks at her.

Playing along, she does a clumsy attempt at a curtsy, almost losing her balance halfway through. She recovers though, head held high even as she blushes in embarrassment. (Sigyn quite likes her, it must be said.)

Loki pretends to be impressed. “That is an elegant curtsy, young Lady.”

“No it isn’t,” Dana sniffs, deadpan and proud the way only a child can be.

(Out of the corner of her eye, Sigyn can see Loki startle at the girl’s bluntness, and oh yes, does she like her!)

“I wanted Lady Sigyn to teach me,” she continues, “but she said I ought to learn how to spell and count first.” She sniffs once, miffed by such a grotesque lack of judgement.

The look reminds Sigyn of Loki, and it is a struggle to keep her expression contrite as the corner of her lips twitch.

She enjoys watching the two of them together, enjoys knowing that Loki can find warmth and simple playfulness within him for children.

“I wouldn’t trust her to teach you anything pertaining to being a Lady, to be honest,” her love states with an exaggerated wrinkling of his now. “Why, we have not even been properly introduced to each other!”

Sigyn puts her hand over her mouth, as if shocked by her own oversight. “My apologies! How could I have forgotten!” Standing straight, she gestures towards the little girl. “Loki, please meet Lady Dana Ragnidottir.” She smiles slightly afterwards, eagerly anticipating the reaction she knows will come. “Dana, this is Prince Loki.”

Dana’s eyes widen, mouth parting open as she stares at Loki. The prince recoils, surprised and made uneasy by this expression he neither recognizes nor understand. He looks at her, seeking explanation, and though she knows he will not admit to it, reassurance.

Foolish Loki, who has always been filled with desires but who will always get in his own way when it comes to fulfilling them.

One of the many reasons he needs Sigyn, she thinks with a certain amount of smugness.

Before she can shed any light on the situation, a woman comes running forward, blond hair and brown eyes to match the little girl’s. “Dana! Come back here!”

Snatching the child away, she quickly inspect her hands, and frowns in disapproval when she sees the state of them.

“I apologize, my Lady! Your dress!” the woman says as she fusses with her daughter’s hands. Her voice bears a certain amount of embarrassment, something to be expected in these circumstances, but her demeanor is not nearly as fearful as it could have been.

She does not fear Sigyn the way she would not fear a friend.

It is always so satisfying to see one’s efforts bear their fruit.

“It is alright, Fulla,” she answers pleasantly. “There is little harm done.”

“She should still know better,” Fulla protests. “I will give her a talking to.”

“If that is what you think is best.” Sigyn has more important things to do than to tell a mother how to educate her child.

“Mama,” Dana whispers, tugging at her mother’s sleeve. “That’s Prince Loki! Prince Loki and Lady Sigyn are friends!”

Fulla’s head snaps towards Loki, who despite his efforts to look composed is still obviously uncertain in front of the attention he is currently receiving. “My Prince! I apologize, I had not recognized you!”

“It is quite alright, kind lady.” Her beloved is still eloquent and quick-thinking, and words have always been both weapon and armour to him. His entire demeanor is charming, betraying nothing of the hesitance he felt just moments before. “It would be unfair of me to expect recognition on sight.”

“But not at all, my Prince!” The woman’s voice has grown suddenly loud and sharp in her protest. She blushes, obviously embarrassed by her own vehemence, but she carries on. “It would be the least I can do, for someone who has done so much for us!”

Loki blinks. “Truly!”

“My brother was there when the Kursed attacked, my Prince,” she continues. “A good man he is, but no fighter. If it hadn’t been for you…”

“You are too kind, Fulla,” Loki replies politely. “But I acted just as much in defense of Asgard as I did for my own sake.”

The Queen’s name remains unspoken, but hangs heavily over the two. Frigga was a beloved ruler, and being reminded that Loki is her son just endears him to Fulla even more.

Sigyn wonders if that was deliberate.

“Still,” Fulla says finally, dipping her head slightly in respect, “I am ever so thankful to have a Prince that has acted in the interest of his own people.”

The insinuation is clear, and Loki is never one to pass up an advantage, especially when it is over his brother. “A prince must choose his priorities.”

“And a worthy King prioritizes his people above any other race.”

It is accusation, scorn and support all at once, and as Sigyn inwardly sings in victory, Loki grows pale from shock. It is fortunate that his regular skin tone is already as close to white as naturally possible, for otherwise her love would have looked most foolish.

Silly Loki, Sigyn thinks fondly, did you think I would simply wait for you to finish with nobility before tackling the common folk? My patience only stretches so far, and I can do better work of it than you ever could.

But perhaps that isn’t entirely fair, for who could truly stay composed when what one has longed for for so long is suddenly given to him.

“Is Lady Sigyn your Lady-Friend?” Dana asks loudly, her innocent curiosity a sharp contrast to the intensity that had come over the conversation.

Loki’s mind, still reeling, is apparently unable to process the question, and he is left opening and closing his mouth quite dumbly.

(Sigyn truly, truly likes the girl.)

“Dana!” her mother berates, “do not ask such things.”

But Sigyn only laughs, and so does Loki when he has regained his wits.

And it doesn’t end, even as they finally bid the mother and child a good day. They keep on going, and Sigyn is welcomed as a friend. They keep on going, and Loki is called Prince.

They talk of Sigyn’s initiatives, and Loki’s assistance in them. They talk of the present, of the future, of their wishes for both, and soon enough that last one will align with theirs.

It doesn’t end, and Loki…

Well, Loki has always been suspicious of a good thing.

Barely a minute after they have taken their leave, as soon as an empty alley is found, Loki drags her by the arm, and grabs her so that she faces him. The movement is violent, and Sigyn will make him pay for it later.

For now though, she needs to calm him down.

“What is this?” he hisses, green eyes flashing. “What did you do?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” she asks coolly, shaking his grip of her. “I gave you what it is you always wanted.”

“How?! How did you do it?!” Loki snarls because anger is a safer emotion than all the others that come to him. “Is it bribery? A few fools you somehow managed to feed some speech to? Or are you merely mocking me!?”

“You give the two of us far too little credit. Your actions during the war, as well as Thor’s, have already planted such thoughts in their mind. I merely ensured that they would not forget.”

“Not forget?” Loki snorts. “I am a frost giant, the traitor, the usurper. If they haven’t forgotten one battle, then surely they haven’t forgotten that!”

“Don’t be dense, Loki,” she snaps. “You are smarter than that. Your heritage, your past deeds, they are nothing but distant knowledge and half-heard stories. I gave them a better one, one that is fresher in the minds and closer to them than any skirmish in a Palace or on a different Realm.” She raises her head, daring him to defy her. “Every war calls for a hero. I gave them you.”

The prince closes his eyes, grits his teeth. So suspicious, so unsatisfied, especially when what he wants is at hand.

“And what payment must I expect to give,” he starts slowly, weight behind each word, “for such a favor? Any new efnimaerr you want me to take care of?”

“Nothing like that,” Sigyn protests, looking at him straight in the eyes as she wills him to believe her. “Consider it a gift.”

Loki’s eyes widen, then narrow in suspicion, trying to find some deceit that is not there.

Sigyn does not need Loki, but she wants him at her side. She is willing to wait a long time, willing to work for the two of them while he slowly comes to her. She can be patient, and she is loyal, and all she needs is for Loki to recognizes that she will always be on his side.

Even if he has not always been on hers.

“Really, Sigyn?” Loki tries to sound disdainful, oh Norns does he try, but his voice shakes and his expression is so fragile. Sigyn feels both tenderness and satisfaction at the sight. “Is this how you intend to win my affection? Do you think you can merely buy my love by giving me the considerations of the masses?” He forces out a laugh. “Is that what you think?!”

Sigyn merely smiles, gracious in her victory. “I think that you wouldn’t comment on it if it weren’t working.”

Loki recoils as if her words were a physical blow, and looks at her with wide eyes.

And then he laughs.

High, desperate, hysterical and joyous, clenching at his sides as tears prickle to corner of his eyes. “Sigyn, oh Sigyn!” he gasps out, still laughing. “To think I called you “sweet” once!”

She laughs as well, hand reaching out to touch him. He lets her. “I can be sweet, dearest of men, but then what reason would you have to love me?”

Still trembling from his giggles, he covers his eyes with his hand, thumb and forefinger squeezing at the corner of his eyes. “Am I to love your viciousness, then? Your ruthlessness? Your manipulations and false gentleness?”

“All those, and more,” she answers, gently taking his hand to squeeze his fingers between hers. “But above all else, that I would do for you what others have not.”

She brings his hand to her lips, kissing each finger individually. He lets her, watches her with baited breath, and when she puts his hand down his eyes do not leave her.

“You love me best,” he says softly, eyes more profound and more unreadable than she has ever seen them. “But I am not sure you love me well.”

The comment hurts, of all things it is that that hurts, and she looks away. Of all he could question, all he could find lacking, the one thing she cannot change...

“I love you the only way I know how.” The words come out defensive and pleading. “I did it for you.”

She doesn’t dare meet his eyes, aware that it is a show of vulnerability but scared that he will see a greater weakness still should she meet his gaze.

She doesn’t look, and so she is surprised when strong arms embrace her, squeezing her tightly but not painfully. Loki’s head rests on top of hers, lips against her hair.

“Yes, Sigyn,” he says softly, and his embrace tightens still.

 

*

_“Loki, come on!” Sigyn calls out, dragging the dark-haired boy behind her. The journey to the linden tree is a long one for their short legs, but the promise of shade near a lake is more than enticing enough on this hot summer day. Loki keeps up as best he can, because there is little he will deny Sigyn._

_“Are you coming, sister?” Loki says with a smirk, because they are in public and a boy of the court has been most rude to her, and it is a subtle but effective way to remind him of his place. Sigyn’s heart swells at the title, beats faster when he takes her hand. They go under the linden tree, because there are no stupid boys or annoying brothers that follow them there._

_“Are you coming, you two?” Thor half-asks, half-demands, but the two of them shake their head. They have plans for the day, plans that involves books and conversations under the shade, and they have no desire to go hit large beasts. Sigyn is not Sif, Loki is not Thor, and they would not have it any other way._

_“Loki, stay,” Sigyn breathes out, because the sun is shining through the falling branches of the linden tree, and Loki looks so beautiful, and before she can truly think she leans forward to claim those lips she has been dreaming about for far too long._

_*_

 

There is a celebration or another. Loki hasn’t been paying attention, too focussed on his assuring his political redemption to have any interest in frivolities.

It is an opulent affair, even by Asgard’s standards. Women in rich gowns, men in their most gilded armour, and it seems to Loki that they all move, dance and laugh around him even as he stays still.

By all accounts, he has more cause for joy now than he has had for the past few years. His place more secure than in a long time, his reputation more glorious than it has any right to be, his impossibly vague tasks somehow getting closer to completion each day.

He should be laughing with them, dancing with them, celebrating his success.

Perhaps he would have, if he hadn’t spotted her across the room.

She is lovely, freckled skin complemented by a deep blue fabric, eyes gentle and welcoming as she looks at him.

Gentle for him, only for him.

But Loki is no longer capable of accepting gentleness.

Who would give such a thing to one such as he? Who would be kind to monster Laufeyson?

Frigga had, but she had never known him as anything other than her son, and love for someone that has once been had blinded her to what he was.

Thor had, once, but then war and rage had ripped both their masks off, and his brother had not been able to love what he had seen.

The simple fact is that Loki cannot be loved, not in truth, not for what he is.

And if Sigyn comes any closer -because she is close, so dangerously close, and part of him just wants to reach out and close the distance - if she comes any closer, she will see that.

So even as she still looks at him, Loki turns away.

If he walks away first, at least he won’t have to watch her do the same.

 

*

 

A mortal once told Loki that he lacks conviction. He had been right.

Because Loki can so rarely deny himself something he wants, and even as he tells himself he is pushing her away, he never truly lets go of Sigyn.

He never kisses anything more than her hand, but he always holds it slightly longer than necessary.

He never gives her any gifts, but the books he lends her are from his personal collection, and he never asks for them back.

He never invites her to his chambers, but when she shows up to his door he invites her in.

And perhaps once or twice, he bids her to stay.

 

*

 

They lay in bed together, side by side as if they were still children. The evening is over now, and there have been neither feasts nor political functions to attend for either of them. An empty night in an otherwise busy schedule, something that is becoming more and more rare for the two of them.

Tonight is a time to rest then, a time to simply be, and the only person he trusts enough to do that with is Sigyn.

(Not even his mother, not really, for he has always been so worried that he would hurt her. But Sigyn, well…)

(It is too late for that.)

No words have been said for quite some time, the silence only broken once by the knock of a messenger on the door. News from Jotunheim, it is said as he tosses the message on his desk, but nothing urgent. He can look at it tomorrow.

Good then. He feels tired, and peaceful, and doesn’t want to let the business of savages disturb him from that peace.

Laying here, eyes closed and breathing in the scent of Asgard’s summertime and Vanir perfume, is a much more preferable activity.

The peaceful moment is interrupted by Sigyn’s whisper. “Loki…”

“Hmm?” he hums, not opening his eyes.

“Would you show me?”

He frowns in confusion, before the meaning of her question hits him. His eyes fly open, and he looks down to see Sigyn staring at him intently.

“Please?” she adds, as if that would change anything.

It takes a great deal of restraint not to throw her off him, something he would have done without hesitation months before. “No!” he snarls. He sits up, forcing her to roll off him.

“I understand I am asking much, but…”

“You understand nothing!” He gets up, walking towards the balcony. He hears her following him, stopping at a distance. He refuses to look at her.

“I know you are afraid, but…”

“Afraid, you think? Nay, my Lady, I simply do not wish to parade myself for your entertainment.” He walks towards the desk, pretending to look over some papers he has left laying there. It is a poor ruse, one he knows she will not believe for a second.

The snort of disbelief behind him merely confirms what he already knows. “I do not ask this for myself! I ask this for you! You are far too brilliant to let something as base as species defeat your spirit. Far too precious to be allowed to wallow in self-hate!” She walks up to him, and with a hand on his shoulders gently forces him to turn. Her eyes are of soft steel when they meet his. “Let me see, and show how meaningless it is!”

“And when I have done as you bid?” He shakes her hand off, glaring at her. “Will you walk away, satisfied that you have seen what you wished? Any exotic beast loses its allure after a while.”

She purses her lips, frustration on her face and hurt in her eyes. (Guilt rears its ugly head, he viciously pushes it down.) “Is that what you think? If so, you are insulting my character and your intelligence.”

He hits his fist against the wall. “Do not mock me!” he snarls. “Do not presume to do so, not in this.” He paces towards her, and is disappointed (and relieved) to find that she does not shy away. “You know nothing of this, nothing! You were not there, you have been gone for so long, and you would presume to educate me on matters you know nothing about?!”

“I know that in Vanaheim, children are not told tales of the wicked Frost Giants. I know that monsters and heroes do not exist, just some men more willing to dirty themselves than others,” she says coldly. She steps forward, so close to him now that he can feel her breath on his face.

“I know that your blood has always been within you, and that every good deed and every wickedness you have done have little to do with it. I know you are Loki, I know -”

He hisses. “You. Know. Nothing.” His voice is dripping with both anger and hurt. The truth always hurts more than any lie. “You are nothing but a girl clinging to a fantasy, a child desperately avoiding reality because whatever dream she made up is so much more pleasant. You know nothing, Sigyn Iwaldidottir. You will willfully ignore the monstrous because it has no part in whatever delusion you cling to. You love a construct, a Loki that exist only in your mind. You do not know me.”

He has said his entire rant in one spiteful, broken breath. He is left panting now, waiting for a reply that does not come.

Sigyn is glaring at him, looking more furious than he has ever seen her before. Her eyes are shining, not with tears but with anger. Her lips are pressed together so tightly they are white.

“You kissed me back,” she whispers, shaking with rage.

He stills for half a moment, before regaining his composure. “I do not know what you are raving about Sigyn, however…”

“You kissed me back,” she interrupts him, more forcefully. “Do not try to deny it.”

He looks at her. Her eyes are gleaming with fury, righteous and proud. Her rage does nothing to calm his own.

The tension between them is thicker than ever, the silence filled only by their loud breaths. He keeps his stare level and blank, refusing to engage her in this.

She speaks again regardless. “The moment my lips touched yours, I was filled with such dismay at my own daring. Joy as well, of course, but the impulse had passed, my mind reasserted itself and I knew in that second that I had to pull back immediately, for my sake if nothing else.” Her voice is deceptively calm, only a hint of bitter amusement creeping it at the end.

“So barely a second later, I starting pulling back. I was so frazzled, ready to apologize and flee. So flustered in fact, that it took me more time than it should have to realize I could not move away.” She tilts her head forward ever so slightly, a cynical smile on her lips. “A hand was holding my head back.”

She grows quiet then, awaiting his reaction to her words.

Loki is a brilliant deceiver, a master at concealment, and he has played those games for a long time. He knows his face reveals nothing.

Inside though, he is burning.

She was beautiful, little Sigyn Odindottir, his sister in the eyes of the law, less so in the eyes of the court, and barely at all in his.

She was beautiful, and bright, and kind to him, and he had been old enough to remember a time where she hadn’t been his sister. And she had kissed him.

She had chosen him, and not Thor. She had chosen him, and that knowledge alone had been enough to send him spiraling into desire.  She had chosen him, and he had been selfish enough, cruel enough not to let her take that choice back.

He had wanted her to want him forever.

“One hand behind my head, the other on my hip. I was so surprised it felt like your touch was burning me, yet all I could do was lean into it. I put my hand on your shoulders” She closes her eyes. “And then heard that servant scurry away.”

He had gotten up then, he remembers, had left, stopping only once to look back at a horrified Sigyn. A few seconds, before turning back and returning to the castle, purposefully wearing a mask of shock and mortification for all to see. To those who had asked the cause for his distress, he had merely stuttered in reply, acting evasive and torn before leaving them unsatisfied and curious.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled in his mother’s skirt, certain that the maids in the room would recount every detail. “I didn’t want...she...I’m sorry.”

What could break the second Prince’s mask? What could take from him his talent for lies?

And then the news had spread, and all had their answers.

The Odindottir has kissed her brother, I have heard! Not as a sibling, but as a lover! She initiated it, didn’t you know? She kept him close. A grip on his shoulder, preventing his escape!

No wonder our Prince was so shocked! Can you imagine? They are like siblings, after all!

How perverse!

How scandalous!

And against the laws of Asgard as well.

“I stood alone in front of the All-Father, when by all rights you should have been beside me.” She opens her eyes once more, her gaze so intense and so focused upon him that he cannot move. He is uncertain what he would do if he could. “I looked for you in the audience, and found only Thor. And I remember thinking “Had it been him I had kissed, he would be with me sharing the blame.” For all his arrogance then, he still held his perceived duty in high regard.” She laughs. “But it is not him I wanted, not then and not now. The boy I had chosen was willing to let me take the fall on my own. And not for one second was I surprised.”

Bitterness and acceptance, blame and understanding, rage, so much rage, and love.

She is beautiful.

“You think I idolize you? You think I imagine you a hero?”

She steps forward, closer and closer until there is so very little space between them. “You, Loki, are devious, treacherous, and selfish. You loved me not, so you had no problem tossing me to the wolves when it suited you. Ruthless, and cruel, and still I -”

His lips crash upon hers, muffling the end of her rant. She yelps in his mouth, something he ignores completely. He wants this, needs this, and so he kisses her through it, one hand tangling in her hair, the other pulling her closer still.

He should not force himself on her like this, he thinks without acting. He should not make her give him anything she does not offer first. He should back away, but he is selfish, horrible, and she knows, she always knew, and she –

He feels a hand snaking in his own her, a sigh of pleasure escaping her lips, and he sobs with relief.

He doesn’t have to let her go.

He kisses her once more, with surging forward with such desperation she goes stumbling back, and he follows. The hit the wall, and he doesn’t care, not until he parts from her because the kiss and the sobs in his chest prevent him from breathing. Even then, he only backs away as little as possible; he can still feel her own pants ghost over his face.

“How…” His voice is hoarse and fragile, he does not even have the strength to be embarrassed. “How could you love me?”

He has never been deserving, never been worthy.

It never ends well for the other.

You are not my mother, he had said to Frigga. And that wasn’t true, not at all, but he hurt and hated (not her, never her!) and so he rejected her because it had been the only form of control he still had on his life. She had been there, and he had deliberately turned away, to prove to himself that he did not need her, because he is a liar. And then he indicate the stairs to the left. Frigga gave him her love, and he killed her in return.

You are not my sister, he thought as Sigyn had kissed him. And that had been true, except when he needed it not to be, and dear, most precious Sigyn had suffered so that he could remain safe. She had presented her love, and he had made good use of it.

Kneel, he had demanded as he killed and threatened, because it made him feel powerful, made him feel like a King, and it had been just enough to pretend he wasn’t drowning. Midgardians had paid the price, and all he regrets of that time is his desperation, and not the lives he took.

Satisfaction is not in my nature, he had told Thor as he headed towards the Kurse. And that is true, and that is why he had wanted to be loved and seen for truth, knowing such a wish would never be granted. Because Thor had seen, and Thor had hated, and no longer called him brother. (And isn't that what Loki wanted? Did he not feel vindicated?) If Thor, brave and golden and good, couldn't find any tenderness in his heart for him, then who could?

“I have… I have wronged you so terribly, and yet…” he trails off, a sob threatening to burst once again. He swallows, and whispers: “You are a fool.”

“A fool for love,” she chuckles quietly.

His hands, still bracing him against the wall, tighten into fists. “Do not mock me!”

She smiles gently, “I do not.”

“You should hate me,” he persists, “you have every right to.”

“I do,” she agrees, and his hearts freezes inside his chest. She goes on: “I could have as well, had I put some effort into it. But I loved you well, you see, and moreover…” She cups his cheek. “I knew at the time that you did not feel as I did. I knew sentiment would not stay your hand. And I knew that had situations been reversed, I would have done the same.”

“You…”

“Perhaps not as you have done. I imagine that at the time I would have simply left, and hoped not to be implicated. But I know that had you stood there alone, and I did not care for you as I did, I would not have intervened.” She smiles ruefully. “Call it cowardice, call it self-preservation, but as much as I would do for one I truly love, I would not risk myself for someone I do not.”

“I hate Odin, for he had made a destitute out of me without a moment’s hesitation. I hate Odin, for as my king and warden he owed me justice and respect, yet he held my sentence before all and willfully did not pursue any path that might incriminate you.”

He chuckles brokenly. “It would not have done for the reputation of the royal family.”

She smiles sadly. “I hate Odin, but as much as it would have been easier to hate you, I could not. I understood you too much for that. Still,” she finishes with a whisper, “I did not forgive you until long after. There are still some days I forget I have.”

Loki says nothing for a long while. Instead he pulls her away, towards the bed they had been laying on. Only this time, it is he who lies within her arms, his head on her chest as he resists the urge to cry. “Have you forgotten today?” His whisper almost echoes in the silence of the room.

A hand comes to stroke his hair. “No,” Sigyn replies, kissing the top of his head, “no I have not.”

“Then please don’t make me,” he murmurs, a sob escaping him despite his best efforts. He buries his face into the fabric of her dress, both out of shame and some childish need for comfort. “Please, not now, I cannot…”

Arms comes to embrace him. Soothing noises reach his ears. “I won’t.”

He releases a sigh in relief. “Thank you,” he breathes out, and his gratitude goes far beyond.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for the delay, apart from "I was terribly distracted by another fandom", which isn't so much an excuse as an admittance of guilt. ^^
> 
> Still, it's here, and I hope you like it!
> 
> No beta, all mistakes are mine.

_“Am I not your mother?” Frigga asked one afternoon._

_“You’re not,” Loki answered, the fool._

_Nothing more was said._

_Many years later, he will have many crimes on his hands. Some of them even done in the name of Asgard. Yet he will waste regret on none of them._

_Those words, though._

_Those will linger with him until the end, and not even the safe embrace of his wife’s arms will only be able to truly keep them at bay._

 

*

 

“Where are you taking me, Sigyn?” Loki asks quietly. His voice is filled with amusement as he allows himself to be pulled by the hand.

“I will tell you when we arrive,” Sigyn answers in all seriousness, not even looking back as she does so. The satchel draped around her shoulders swings as she walks, hitting her thigh with each step she takes. With an exasperated huff, she grabs it and tucks it under her arm, her step not faltering for a second.

Loki chuckles. “It is the middle of the night, Sigyn.”

“I am aware.”

“This better be worth it.”

“We can always go back, if you’d rather,” Sigyn threatens then.

Loki inclines his head mockingly. “My lips are sealed.”

And Sigyn leads him still, out the palace and through the capital’s streets. Further and further towards the west they go, until they can reach no further.

Asgard’s ocean lies before them, black and still like the sky above it. So gentle are its waves tonight that it could almost be mistaken for an obsidian mirror, reflecting the stars above it with the serenity of a warm summer night.

And amidst that tranquility, Loki looks with rising turmoil.

“This is…” he starts, but cannot finish. He clenches his jaw, painfully so.

It is so he doesn’t cry, you see.

He has never seen this place, had not been allowed to, yet all he needs to see if the ocean flowing out and over the world’s edge and the newborn constellation of stars above him to recognize it.

For a moment, he imagines a boat floating along the dark water and dissolving into stardust, but he shuts that thought down quickly.

He cannot bear to look at the horizon anymore, so slowly he turns towards Sigyn. He wants to keep his expression blank, knows he looks on closed to shattering.

It only worsens when he sees Sigyn reach into her bag and slowly take out an orb of pure white light. When she hands it to him, her expression is almost shy, though her grip is firm and her voice steady in its gentleness.

“I know you were forbidden from attending her funeral,” she says quietly. “I know it hurt you. And I know this is hardly an acceptable substitute, but I…”

He interrupts with a kiss.

It is a gentle, chaste thing, but no less intense for the way he pours himself into it, hands closing over hers in a delicate hold. The white light burns bright in between them, flooding the night sky, blinding even through closed eyelids.

When he pulls back, he reaches out with one hand to gently stroke the side of her face, the back of his fingers tingling at the contact of her skin.

“Thank you,” he whispers, voice fervent as he gazes into her eyes.

Sigyn smiles softly. “I love you.”

Loki smiles back, and kisses her again.

Sigyn is the one to pull away this time, placing the glowing light into his hands. When his hold is secure, she steps back. “I will give you a moment,” she whispers. Gesturing towards an area just ten meters away, she adds, “I’ll be here if you need me.”

Loki nods, and watches her step away.

Then he turns towards the ocean, closes his eyes, and lets himself remember.

He remembers blond hair and blue eyes, soft and clever smiles. Deceptively delicate seiðr, of blue tendrils and gold shimmer.

He remembers late afternoons in an ever blooming garden; old parchments held between two pairs of hands, one big and one small. He remembers cheerful and proud laughter after his first spell, hidden and mischievous laughter after his first trick.

He remembers cruel words, foolish words, the last he has ever spoken to her, and eyes full of forgiveness even as they were full of tears.

Loki breathes. Gasps for breath.

Cries, but briefly.

His hands part open, and the globe of light gently floats upward towards a constellation that is brand new and the most beautiful there ever was.

Loki closes his eyes, and remembers his mother.

 

*

 

A thought of Sigyn, which she will never share:

She is glad Frigga is dead.

Beyond revenge, beyond bitterness, she is glad, for Frigga may very well have been the woman Loki loved best of all.

She would have hated to have to compete with that.

*

There can only be one hero in the story.

That is untrue, for the most part. Life is never so simple, and the greatest stories of all translate its complexities. They are epic and difficult, complicated and nuanced. Rich and deep, they leave those who hear them in deep thought over what they heard and what it might mean.

Sigyn doesn’t want a great story. She wants one that is easy to remember. A popular tale, for the common mass. She does not want them to think. She wants them to praise.

There can only ever be one hero in that sort of story.

 

*

When Sigyn had first heard the news, she had simply put down her quill to properly thank the messenger at her door, and the had calmly finished her letter.

Her mind had been a fury of surprise and anger, bitterness and slight panic. Yet she finished her letter, with her elegant calligraphy, and had gone to meet the women she calls her friends, her face as joyful and light as that of a young lady who had no worries in the world.

And indeed Sigyn did not worry. She planned.

And now, a full day after she first heard the news, she is ready.

She walks down Asgard’s halls with her head held high, her steps slow and deliberate. She passes by many noble-borns along the way, and it is a thrill to see that most of them greet her with a slight bow of their head. She returns each of them with a smiles, and continues her way with more confidence and determination.

This is what she is building for herself. She will let nothing compromise it.

After ten minutes she finally finds the person she is looking for, in the royal family’s private quarters. No one stops her as she enters them, and the few servants there step out of her path as she makes her way towards the balcony.

There she sees him, leaning against the handrail as he looks over the opulent city that has only just recovered from Svarltalfheim’s attack. Her once-brother.

“Thor.”

The first prince of Asgard startles at her voice, so lost in thought he way. “Sigyn,” he greets quietly as he turns towards her. “They had told me of your return.”

His tone is more careful than she remembers, his manner less boastful. He is still as golden as ever, but his shine is dimmed with experience and sorrow. Responsibility casts a shadow upon him, one that gives him the gravitas of a king.

But he will never be king, Sigyn vows viciously. He will not stand in her and Loki’s way.

“I hope you do not object to it.” Her voice is flat, her words are neutral. This reply of hers is only there to gauge how Thor reacts to it.

She does not care what he thinks.

“I…” he starts, before interrupting himself. He takes a deep breath, and when he speaks again he sounds the part of the calm, confident Prince, even if his expression still remains much more vulnerable than it has been in a long time. “It has been a long time, and circumstances have changed. And though your actions were condemnable at the time, I have never hated you for them.”

“You were always very unskilled at hate.”

“You are kinder than I deserve.”

“I disagree,” she says politely, hiding her impatience.

This conversation could go on for eternity, and she would sooner see her end goal met.

If Thro is reluctant to approach the topic that weighs so heavily on his mind, she will be more than happy to do it for him. “These past years, you’ve had more than enough cause for hate. Instead of that, you’ve offered love time and time again.”

Thor neither nods nor blinks. Instead, he asks: “I have been told he is doing well.”

There is no question as to who he is referring to.

“I would say so,” Sigyn answers quietly.

“That he is working towards redemption.”

“The All-Father has given him several tasks. He has accomplished most of them already.”

Thor takes in the news with a nod, the many thoughts in his head voicing themselves in an ineloquent but earnest answer. “That is good.”

The conversation dies down for a moment, and Sigyn makes no effort to rekindle it. Best to let Thor stumble his way to his point, for however long that might take.

Not too long, in the end. It only takes a few moments of silence for him to speak again. “I could not find him,” he said, his voice the picture of dejection.

Sigyn stays silent.

“I could not find him,” he repeats. “Loki.” He sighs. “I must have been looking for him for hours now, yet I have found no trace of him. And those who indicate to me where he might be always prove to be mistaken.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” she answers diplomatically.

In truth, it is the one good aspect of this situation; that Loki isn’t here. She doesn’t know what she would have done if he had been.

“I only wish to speak to him. We have not left in the best of terms and I…” Thor’s distressed rambling is cut off abruptly by his mouth snapping shut. Sigyn can almost see the lid of stoicism falling over him, covering all his troubles for the sake of propriety. “Forgive me, my Lady. I do not wish to burden you with such things.”

“Not at all,” she assures quickly. Too quickly, in fact, and she suppresses a wince. She needs to keep him talking, but to blurt out such clumsy reassurances is amateurish.

Fortunately, Thor has always been receptive to sentimentality.

“We were family, once,” she murmurs, putting just the right amount of embarrassed caution to make her for her earlier mistake.

“Aye,” Thor says, deep in thought. “And because of that, I owe you a most heartfelt apology.”

That takes her off guard.

“Thor?” she forces out, voice nearly a croak as she does so.

“You did not deserve to be shunned as you did.” He speaks the words with such certitude, humbleness and nobility allowing him to openly admit his own faults. “Your actions were against the law, it is true. However, both you and Loki were old enough to remember a time when you were not siblings. You were a ward of our Father, and yet you were condemned as if you shared blood with my brother. And even if you did deserve condemnation, you also deserved the support from those who called themselves your family.”

The Thunderer paused then; whether it was to let his words sink in or for some other reason, Sigyn was too stunned to tell.

She would have given a lot to hear those words once.

They mean a lot to her still.

But too late.

It is enough, but it is far too late.

“I was but a young prince at the time,” he finally continues, “and had little power or influence. Yet I still behaved most coldly towards you, up until your banishment. For that, my Lady, I cannot ask you to forgive me. I can only present my most sincere apologies.”

Sigyn nods slowly. “I accept them,” she says, once she is certain her voice will be steady.

She is surprised to find that she means it.

Thor nods once, relieved but not smiling. “I thank you for that.”

“You have changed, Thor,” she says slowly, appraisingly. “Midgard has been good for you.”

Which is almost a pity. It would have been easier if he were still the callous oaf of his youth.

“It has brought me humility, yes, which I can now recognize I sorely needed.” Thor’s expression darkens. “But it is a lesson I am yet still learning.” A pause, then a plea. “Do you not know where he is, Sigyn?”

“He has gone to Vanaheim to conclude trading arrangements.” And what luck that is, for otherwise all her work would have been severely compromised by one familial reconciliation. “He will return in five days.”

“Then I shall wait for him,” Thor speaks with finality.

No, he will not.

Sigyn’s expression turns pained, her voice adopts a careful, soothing tone even as she speaks her next words with carefully planned hesitation. “Thor, I… I do not think it wise.”

His reaction is instantaneous: he recoils slightly, as if shocked by her reply, and his eyebrows furrow in confusion. “My Lady?”

“Loki is still earning his place here,” she elaborates, carefully gauging his response as she does so. “He will find it difficult to do so with you here.”

Thor flinches at that, both from her bluntness and the harshness of her words. There is perhaps nothing more painful for him to hear than that his help is neither wanted nor of any use.

Such a hero, this Thunderer, and a new kind with his newfound humility. Inaction weighs on him so.

“I do not mean to be hurtful,” she continues, she lies. “But you cast such a large shadow, and I do fear that his efforts will go less noticed for your presence in Asgard. If that happens, he will resent you for it. You mean well, I know. But perhaps what Loki needs right now is your distance.”

“We have much to discuss,” he protests, but his voice lacks his usual certainty. He has been wrong too many times about Loki, longs too much for their bond to be restored to be confident in his own judgement. “Our relationship is wounded, and I fear that any longer and that wound will fester.”

“Or perhaps time will heal it, and let it fade,” Sigyn says gently.

Thor nods once, but remains deeply hesitant, she can tell.

It is odd, this newfound consideration of his. There was a time when he would have readily embraced the easiest path, accepted the implication that Loki would come back to him with no need for Thor to make any sort of effort. There was a time he was a loving brother, but a selfish and self-centered one as well.

Now he is better, or he tries to be.

How very inconvenient.

Slowly, she reaches out to hold his arm, deliberately imitating the gesture she has seen Frigga do countless of time. When the Thunderer turns to look at her, she keeps her expression serene and inviting, and hopes her blue eyes will evoke those of another woman who often brought him council.

“I will tell him you have come,” she says softly, “and if he wishes to see you, he will come to find you.”

That placates him, somewhat, but not entirely. “Loki has often been reluctant to seek out comfort,” he murmurs. “For fear of seaming weak. I used to be content letting him do so.” His eyes shift towards the ground, and the sadness in his voice becomes tinged with determination. “I no longer wish to be so willfully blind.”

“You are not,” Sigyn assures, and she is not lying. Her hand squeezes around his arm, gentle and comforting. “And I am here.”

For a long while, Thor says nothing, mulling over her words with careful consideration and much hesitance. It takes more effort that Sigyn thought it would to keep her breathing level.

Though Thor is not of a suspicious nature, any overt anticipation over his answer is bound to raise questions. A tragedy that would be, when she is so very close to getting what she wants.

“You love my brother dearly, do you not?” he asks finally, though it is more of a statement than anything else.

Sigyn does not blink at the apparent change in subject. “Yes.”

Thor smiles. “Then I trust you to look after his heart.” Gently, he takes her hand in his, and brings the knuckle to his lips. “And I will trust your judgment, for you have always held a better understanding of him than I have.”

Sigyn smiles back.

It is a smile of true content. Of victory.

But Thor will only ever see the first.

“You have a lover on Midgard, do you not?” she asks. She needs to change the subject to assure her victory.

More importantly, she needs him out before Loki returns.

Thor’s eyes take on a special brightness when she mentions the woman he is so taken with. He looks so besotted, and answers in a near worshipful tone just at the mention of her. “Yes.”

“Mortal lives are fleeting. I would advise you take advantage of every moment together the Norns grant you.” She raises herself on the tip of her toes, and presses a soft kiss to his cheek. “Go to your love, Thor. You deserve such happiness.”

Thor smiles once more, earnest and thankful, before his expression turns hesitant again. He turns towards the city once more, eyes focusing on the Bifrost, shining and golden in the distance.

Sigyn knows that he is looking for his brother.

“Tell Loki that I will come should he ever call,” he says slowly, persuaded that this decision is best but still saddened to be making it. He closes his eyes. “And that I love him, ever so dearly.”

Putting one hand on his shoulder, gently turning his head towards her with the other, Sigyn speaks with all the caring conviction she is capable of. “Of course.”

But she never will.

It takes Thor another day to leave fully. It takes Loki five days to return. He is informed that his brother has been in Asgard, but is not told anything more for those who have seen him were not given the details of his intent.

And Sigyn keeps quiet. She will never tell Loki why his brother came here, will never tell him of Thor’s newfound insight and regret. She will never tell Loki, though she knows he still loves his brother, and longs for a reconciliation just as much as Thor. His pride forbids him from making the first gesture, and Sigyn will forbid Thor’s from ever being known.

She chooses to hurt him, because on this day she does not forgive him for all that he has done to her. And her vengeance is cruel.

*****

_In years to come, Thor will walk the halls of Asgard and find none of the warmth had so long associated with the place._

_Red and silver will be traded for simple black, as mourners on Midgard do. A last homage to his Lady Jane, one that will carry on until the grief he feels no longer threatens to suffocate him._

_He doesn’t know how long that will take._

_Of course, he had been made to understand that such customs were no longer upheld in that Realm he so loves, but if anything, it only encouraged him to done his black clothing. His love had always teased him for his old-fashioned ways, had taken a light-hearted delight in acting what she called “more modern”, even with her skin wrinkled and paper thin, her hair devoid of the color it once held, and her frame shaking from the weight of all her years._

_Thor will walk the halls of Asgard, and to the cold one death has brought will be added that of the stares given to him. Those who once praised him now only would only greet him out of frigid politeness. Even familiar faces will greet him with dimmed enthusiasm, their grins tainted with silent blame for being gone all those years._

_And in the beginning, Thor will not care. For there will be only one person he wishes to see, one so dearly missed, so dearly loved still. And Thor will go looking for him, in the Library, in the Council chamber, in every place he knew him to roam, until he will find him in the middle of the great hall._

_Loki will be surrounded by a crowd, some among them plotting politicians, others earnest friends, and he will not look at him. Not even a glance, or a nod of the head._

_And Thor will watch, a wall and a ravine between them._

_“Brother,” he will call out, and his voice will both seem to intrusive and too quiet._

_And Loki will finally look up, and give him a smile that Thor will recognize._

_The one Loki gave to all those he could not afford to publicly spurn._

_“Ah, Thor,” he will greet, voice sweet and cordial and false. “I am afraid I am very busy right now. We will have to talk later.”_

_Not waiting for an answer, he will turn back towards the crowd surrounding him, and spare not a glance further towards the one who still calls him brother._

_And Thor’s grief, which had once threatened to suffocate him, would carve out his heart and leave nothing in its stead._

*

 

When the first orphanage celebrates its first anniversary, Sigyn is the guest of honor.

There are drink and food, merriment and pride. The artisans praise the initiative that allowed them to find so many talented apprentices. Cunning politicians sensing opportunity come to be seen. The more soft-hearted of the guest coo over the small, bright children that run around in the courtyard.

But Sigyn, of course, is the most visible. The most visibly kind as well, as she bounces a little girl on her knees, a lovely child with red hair and freckled skin, dressed in a blue summer dress that complements her eyes.

Sigyn looks at the child, this fatherless, motherless thing. This child will remain so, a ward of the state instead of a man. She will finish her education with many children in her situation, and then she will learn a trade, or find a husband, or a wife, or do any number of things she might want.

This child will be motherless always, fatherless always. But she will be free, from expectations and from demands. She will be brotherless, and love whomever she chooses.

The little girl hops off of her lap to join a game. Her red hair bounces behind her as she runs. For now, she runs to chase other children, but perhaps one day it will be to reach a linden tree on top of a hill.

And all of it, she will owe Sigyn.

Sigyn looks at the child, and feels vicious vindication.

Sigyn looks at the child, and sees herself.

*****

What makes a story satisfying?

The answer is simple. Loose ends must be tied.

*

 

Jotunheim is different at dusk. The sun shines dimly still, bouncing off the snow and shimmering through the ice. It fills the world with colors other than grey and blue. There is gold, and true white, and flashes of violet and green as if looking through a prism.

It is beautiful to look at. To recognize it - to give any sort of positive comment about this land - would once have been painful for Loki.

No longer now.

“You look as if you have never seen our Realm before.”

Loki pulls away from the window to look at the woman before him. Farbauti-Queen stands tall and proud, as royalty should. She is not dressed in her best clothes - Loki doubts he would have been impressed anyway - but there is still some luxury to her outfit. Soft furs, a gold armband, green stones laced through her hair. The color scheme is familiar, and only accentuates her resemblance to Loki.

For they look very much the same, in the eyes, the nose, the cheekbones. Loki also imagines she is the most to blame for his size. She is small for a Giant, the smallest he has seen, although not a runt by any measure. He still has to crane his neck to look at her in the eyes.

Much like that ill-fated expedition all those years ago. Only this time the setting is more private - a small chamber instead of the main court - and this encounter is meant to favor peace, not war.

As much peace as there can be between Asgard and Jotunheim anyway.

“I have never seen it at this time of the day,” he answers smoothly, stepping further away from the window. He walks around the room as he talks, his slow steps denoting a confidence he doesn’t quite feel.

But he is in a Realm of monsters, and he cannot afford weakness.

“Yes you have.” The Queen’s voice almost echoes in the room, more from the gravity in her voice than anything else. It is years of deceit, a world of things unspoken hidden inside that one correction. And it is years of grief, a world lost in a battle inside the words she speaks next: “You merely do not remember.”

Loki nods, for it is rude not to acknowledge a sovereign’s words. Not matter how much he might wish to.

Then again, this is why he came here in the first place. He needs to hear what Farbauti has to say, and more importantly, he needs to answer. Closure is the word Sigyn used, though Loki himself would prefer to call it nothing at all.

To give it a name is to give it meaning, and he would rather this matter mean nothing more than politics. “I do not remember. And so it must matter little, in the end.”

Farbauti laughs. It is a sharp, cold think, equally amused and cynical. She sounds like Loki. “It mattered to you once. Enough to kill my mate for it. And it matters to me still.”

“We are not here to talk about that.”

“But we will.” Spoken like a Queen, full of authority and decisiveness. Her next words, however, are spoken in a different way entirely. “I thought you dead.”

Loki says nothing in return, doesn’t react to the tenderness in her words and the longing beneath it still. He knew what to expect, for Heimdall has been most cooperative as of late. He has prepared for this, and that is why he feels neither sadness or rage.

“I mourned you.”

“You were right to.” Once, when he was a boy, his parents would be most cross when he used that insolent tone and shrugged so casually. This one is in no position to reprimand him though, and there is a certain satisfaction in that. “Your son is dead. Which I suppose was rather the intent when you left him out to die.”

“We didn’t.”

Loki can feel his indifferent expression slip away. The words startle him, his keen mind quickly dissecting them and finding a hundred hidden meanings and a thousand implications. Did Odin know? Did he lie, or was he mistaken, and -

No.

 _You overthink constantly, my love,_ Sigyn often says. And she is right. Overthinking is what got him in trouble time and time again. When in rage, it paralyzed him, when in despair, it sent him falling into an abyss. Now, when he feels neither, it would distract him from the task at hand.

It doesn’t matter if Odin knew, or if he was mistaken. It doesn’t matter, because either way Loki does not blame him.

He is happy it has happened. He would have done the same.

Perhaps the Queen mistakes his slight startle for true interest, or perhaps she merely wishes to express years of unspoken sentiment. Whatever the case, she continues. «You were lost. In battle, there was so much confusion, and I gave you to my hand lady, but…” She swallows. “We never knew what happened precisely.”

Loki shrugs. “Perhaps she ran to hide, and an Aesir struck her down. Or perhaps one of your own saw fit to kill the runt-prince. To one-day bow to someone with such a deformity… An insult too great.” Silence meets his words. Farbauti looks both pained and bitter. Loki is certain that expression has graced his own face more than once. “You don’t deny it’s possible.”

“Laufey was not... pleased with your size.” She says the words as if they pain her to say. Her fists clench slightly at her side, although it is subtle enough that it would have gone unnoticed had she been before anyone else. “Strength is prized here, and the malformed have little of it. In a royal line, some saw it as an ill omen. He did not believe in such things, but knew better than to underestimate that belief in others.”

“He was clever then.”

“He did not wish to kill you though,” she insists. “You were his blood.”

But that doesn’t mean much in the end though, does it? “He did not mourn me.”

“He mourned as a sire should.”

“So mainly for show.” Loki hopes he doesn’t sound bitter; it would convey the wrong impression. Though a part of him cannot help but resent not being wanted, he doesn’t want to associate himself with the Frost Giants in anyway. He doesn’t even want to waste feelings on them. “I don’t care.”

Farbauti cocks an eyebrow. “You ask many questions, for one who doesn’t care.”

“Idle curiosity, nothing more.”

“Liar!”

The quick response was expected. The rage, not so much. Farbauti has proven to be a tempered person, but now her eyes flash in anger and insult. Her lips pull back in a snarl - a true frost beast - and green seiðr glows at the tip of her fingers.

It is weaker than his, he notes smugly.

“Do not insult us so!” Anger makes her voice hoarser, even as a new sibilant note makes her sound more menacing. “Your despair was evident, your rage so violent it broke our Realm, killed our children. You feel strongly, like your sire did.” Her expression softens once again, the magic gathered at her tips disappears. Yet still she looks colder than before, defiant and scorning both.

Yet she is his mother, her face is the same as his, and so he recognizes hurt.

“Idle curiosity is not something you are capable of,” she states with certitude. It is grating, especially since it is true.

“And what do you wish me to say?” he scoffs. He puts his hand to his chest in mock pain, his expression shifts into exaggerated contriteness. It is childish, undignified, but they are barely two rulers anymore. She sees in him a son. He will make sure to change that. “That I am so terribly sorry for what I have done? That I long for your forgiveness, for your affection?” His lips pull back into a sneer of their own. “I didn’t know Frost Giants are so sentimental.”

“ _Jotnar_ aren’t. For mothers, it tends to be different.”

And in that moment he hates her.

He hates her, because she looks at him gently. Because the hate he has hoped to see is still not there. Because he knows she would reach out to him if she believed he would allow it, and, and…

( _And am I not your mother?_ )

How _dare_ that beast remind him of her?

“And what a son I make,” he spits out. If he cannot have her bile, he will make up for it with some of his own. “I am certain you are thrilled to know your blood responsible for all your suffering.”

He walks back towards the window, towards Jotunheim as the sun still sets. It is bright, savagely beautiful, but also _broken._ Large pits where there once were none, ruined towers and shattered walls. There had once been a mountain in the horizon; it is now only dust.

“Tell me, _moðir_ ,” he croons, turning back to face her. “As you look onto this corpse of a land, do you feel pride?”

Her jaws clench, her eyes harden. “We’ve suffered long before your attack.”

“But now you suffer more.”

“Yes,” she spits out. Her eyes grow colder still, her shoulders shake. “It broke my heart, when I learned the truth of you. Because you are my son, and you were taken from me. And because I knew I could never have you back. I mourned my mate, and I mourned my son once more. You stand before me, and still you will not let me touch you.”

Loki supposes he might pity her.

He decides not to. “These discussions are pointless. I came here to speak of Asgard, and Jotunheim.”

The air of the room shifts at that. The tension remains, but it is different: Farbauti is a Queen once more. Loki had never been a son, but now he is a representative of the King. In any other circumstances, it would be a gross imbalance of power. A true ruler against one who is barely more than a prisoner on parole.

However, the Realm is ruins around them, and Loki’s parole has proven to be little more than a formality.

“Do you have it still?” She whispers almost as she says this, quiet intensity and growing anticipation. Hope as well, even as her features remain guarded. She does not trust him.

Wise women.

“Yes,” Loki nods. “The Casket has been in my exclusive custody, in fact. Ever since I killed Laufey.”

She doesn’t react to his last barb. “It is useless to Asgard.”

“It always has been. However, that is not why it was taken.”

She sighs. “I do not deny Laufey used it poorly. The idea of ruling two realms appealed to him greatly, and he spoke with enough eloquence that he seduced the council as well.” She straightens. “But he is dead now. Circumstances have changed.”

“Yes, they have.”

Farbauti leans forward, just a little. She may not even be aware she is doing so. “You would give it back to us.”

And here it is.

“No.”

Silence follows his words, as he knew it would. It is tempting to close his eyes, bask in its glory, but it would be foolish to lose sight of her now. Suicidal, even.

“What?” The Queen’s voice is as cold as the realm she governs.

“Jotunheim has proven it cannot be trusted with it.” Loki speaks as coldly as he can in return. “I shan’t risk all the Realms by returning the Casket”

Farbauti looks at him, shock and outrage warring in her eyes. “I give my word,” she says slowly, “we wouldn’t use it for nothing but the reconstruction of our lands, we…”

“I don’t care,” Loki interrupt flippantly.

The ones he called parents were prompt to anger whenever he used that tone. It seems this one isn’t immune either.

“We will die without it!”

“Most likely. Which is why I intend to ration it.”

“Ration it,” the Queen repeats, voice flat.

Loki nods. “We’ll discuss the details of frequency and length, of course. But I will remain in full control of the Casket. I will use it on this land, as I deem necessary.” He smiles then, which is perhaps the greatest insult he can give. “Of course, your opinion on the matter would be most welcome.”

Farbauti doesn’t answer. Instead, she walks slowly towards the window where Loki had stood, looking over her realm just as Loki has. Only where he saw the land he has finally triumphed over, she sees the people she has failed.

She shouldn’t, Loki thinks. Laufey is the one who ruined this place.

And then a voice in his mind bids him to take responsibility for his actions. It sounds like Odin, like Frigga, like Sigyn, and so he amends:

Many people have torn this kingdom down; Loki is the one who will ruin it.

“We’d be dependent on you.” The Queen’s voice is almost numb, defeat creeping in despite pride’s best attempts to keep it at bay. And for once, Loki doesn’t care about form or display.

He will win. He will destroy this place, kill the monsters that haunt him, make sure they never rise again.

It is more than enough.

“That is rather the idea.”

“We’d be slaves to Asgard…” Farbauti turns towards him, fuming. “You would make us your vassals!”

Her red eyes shine with barely concealed fury. Her lips pull back to reveal sharp black teeth. The air crackles around her.

(So _there_ is where he got his magic from. It was his mother after all.)

“I do not particularly enjoy repeating myself.” Loki crosses his arms. “Rest assured I am fully aware of the implications.”

The stare at each other for a long while, Loki unmoving and unperturbed, Farbauti’s ragged breath slowly dying down as defeat settles in fully. She has no leverage, nothing to give that Loki want. All she has is this Prince’s mercy, which has always been nonexistent where Frost Giants are concerned.

“Is this revenge?” Her voice is quiet, for she is a mother once more, stabbed most cruelly by the one she calls son. “For losing you? For Laufey?”

Loki shakes his head. “No. It is politics.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” she tries again, even though they both know it is foolish.

He cocks an eyebrow. “But subjugating you will earn me Asgard’s favors better than anything else.”

“You are my son still.” The mother can allow tears to well in her eyes, even though the Queen would never let them fall. “I love you.”

Loki believes her. “I do not.”

There is nothing left to be said. They both look out the window one last time, where the sun has set and the world is dark.

It will be dark for a long time still.

 “Good day, Farbauti Queen.”

It is most rude for a King to take his leave so casually, but Loki does not care. He leaves, not looking back towards the Queen who watches him go, not stopping as he crosses the empty courtyard, doesn’t stop until he reaches the Bifrost site.

When he returns to Asgard, he doesn’t look at Heimdall, barely acknowledges anyone that he meets on his way.

There is only one person he wants to see.

Sigyn sits reading in his chambers, which have almost become her own from the time she spends in them. When he enters the room, she puts the book down, and stands.

“Is it done?”

Loki doesn’t answer.

He crosses the room to meet her, slowly, deliberately. Sigyn watches him in silence, lets him take her hand and press it against his cheek.

Her eyes widen slightly when his skin suddenly turns cold under her hand. White fades to blue, green to red.

“Sigyn,” Loki breathes out. His breath smells like snow.

Sigyn smiles, and leans forward for a kiss.

 

*

 

_It is a simple truth of this world that Odin will never completely understand Loki._

_The King is shrewd, cunning, can devise multiple plans with multiple layers, and outthink even the most devious of politicians, but his emotions are always simple: there is a time for anger, a time for sorrow, for joy, for fear, for grief._

_A time for no feelings at all, when it is time to be King._

_(Odin is so very often a King.)_

_Loki feels, deeply, intensely, like opposing currents in murky waters. Nothing is simple, nothing is clear, and there is no anger that is not also sadness and doubt and longing._

_A violent river and an implacable rock have very little in common._

_Loki is a creature of messy emotion, and so Odin will never fully appreciate what drives his actions._

_But he can understand his goals._

_And that is how the two will come to an understanding._

 

*

 

The All-Father’s study has always been intimidating to him as a child. Loki remembers peeking through the door, eyes widening as he took in the rich furniture, the intricate decorations, the large golden ceiling. It had all looked so big and imposing.

Now, though, he finds it too gaudy and not grand enough. Looking down at the drink the All-Father has given him, he wonders how upset the Aesir would be if he took to redecorating.

Perhaps in a few centuries.

“Is the drink to your liking?” Odin sits across from him, his gaze cool and polite. In his hand is a glass filled with the same drink.

“It is a fine Vanir wine.” Loki takes a sip. “I prefer elfish liquor though.”

“And I would rather some dwarvish mead,” the All-Father replies, amusement in his voice although his face remains neutral. “This is a compromise for us both. Meeting each other halfway, I am certain you see the soundness behind it.”

“And I am certain you are merely talking about alcohol right now,” Loki drawls.

Odin sits back in his chair, eyes twinkling. The two men drink quietly, each gauging the other. The silence is more comfortable than anything else, filled with a tacit understanding between them.

 Eventually, the All-Father speaks once more.

 “Your betrothed has been extremely pleased these past months.” He keeps his tone casual, as if it were a casual observation. “Some may even say self-satisfied.”

“They wouldn’t be too wrong.” Loki shrugs. “She does so enjoy defeating an enemy. I imagine she relishes this perceived victory more than others.” He looks at Odin knowingly. “I will not let her illusions stand for long, of course. After the ceremonies, I shall tell her everything, I think. In these final hours, I will not have her bruised pride possibly compromise our work.”

“Does her pride have any reason to be bruised?” the King asks in false curiosity.

“Feelings cloud judgement, or so I’ve been told,” Loki replies, leaning back. “In this case, her… feelings concerning you may have blinded her to what you were planning. Or rather, made her not wish to see.”

Odin chuckles. “You have always been clever. How long have you known?”

“Long enough.”

“Detail it for me, please.”

Loki raises an eyebrow. “You wish for me to tell what we both already know?”

“I wish to listen to your reasoning,” Odin retorts. “A father always enjoys witnessing his son’s brightness. Enlighten me, Loki Odinson.”

Loki takes a breath. “Thor refused the throne.”

“He did, yes.”

“He disappointed you.” That statement Loki is unsure of, an uncertainty that takes root straight into his heart. He wonders if the King knows how much hope he puts in his answer.

After all this time, still.

Odin nods, neither reluctantly nor gravely. “Yes, he did.”

The words mark the release of all the tension within Loki’s frame. He can feel himself sag down, almost sigh in relief.

The rest comes easily enough after that. “And from that moment on, he was no longer the viable heir in your eyes. You so dislike being defied, after all.”

The All-Father brushes off the clumsy attempt to provoke him. “That last statement is inaccurate and you know it.” He shakes his head. “He has no desire to be King, as he said, refuses the compromises that come with the position.”

“He is too self-righteous.”

“Perhaps,” Odin concedes, somewhat bitterly. “I, for one, would argue spoiled. By fate, by Asgard… by me as well, as I am certain you wish to hear me say.” He sighs, shaking his head both sadly and angrily. “To be born the crown prince, with the highest favor and luxury, to have all the privileges his station gives, and refuse his duty when the time comes…” He laughs, bitterly. “To think he spoke of honor…”

“Thor can only think as a warrior, the kind of foolish tales.” Loki hadn’t intended to talk about his brother, but he cannot pass up an opportunity to lay Odin’s failures before him. “He fought valiantly, he deserves the reward of a peaceful life. With some more enemies to kill on the side.” He smirks. “If you wanted a warrior-king, you only half succeeded.”

“Asgard wished for a warrior. They wish for their King to be heroic, to reassure themselves that none will ever touch them. Like children, they wish for simple truths.”

“Sigyn said something similar.”

“Am I supposed to be offended? I am not. Though she may hate me with a child’s fervor, I myself have always been fond of her.”

“That did little to help her,” Loki snaps. “Or me.”

“On the contrary. Your place in my heart has done much to shield you.”

“Shield me!” He stands up in outrage. “Don’t you dare, Odin-King, not after -”

Odin’s eyes narrow. “Sit down, Loki!”

“Ha! You think -”

“You will do as you are told! If not out of respect for you King, then out of self-respect. You shouldn’t lose your temper now.” The King waits as Loki sits back down, petulantly. “Shield you, yes. Do you not realize how favored you have been?” He barks out a laughter. “Like Thor, you take too much for granted.”

“Like what?” Loki challenges, lifting his chin.

“Everything. Your rank. Your fortune. Your power,” Odin spits out. “You were cast out on a rock, and I took you in. I sent Sigyn away, you I kept. Your little lie did much to convince the court, and I let you maintain it. You were a prisoner; I gave you a chance. None of these things were _owed_ to you, boy!”

“That wasn’t for me, that was for you.”

“I have raised you the same way I have raised Thor - and if you believe I had been any harder on you then you are as willfully blind as your betrothed.” He leans back. “I have put you up to the same tasks, exerted the same demands upon you, the demands a prince of Asgard must face! Thor was better suited to fulfill those expectations, that is true. But that, my boy, was just luck.”

“So I am to blame for being unable to meet your unrealistic expectations.” Loki speaks the words slowly, tasting on his tongue the accusation and all it implies. “It is very easy for an As to act as the Aesir would want. In retrospect, I was at a rather great disadvantage.”

“Frigga - your Mother-” his voice tightens a little at the mention of his wife, but the moment passes, “said much of the same. But if I had changed anything, made different demands that would have been viewed as lesser, then all of Asgard would have believed it meant I thought you weak.”

“Thank the Norns you stayed quiet, then,” Loki says with a cynical smirk.

Again, the King does not rise to the bait. He stares impassively at his son. “Will you let me continue?”

It is tempting to protest, just for the sake of it, to contradict the All-Father because he _can._ But no, he will not do that to himself.

Not when he is _finally_ getting answers.

He nods, with as much ill-grace as he can muster.

Odin rolls his eyes, slightly, but continues. “We could debate all night over the mistakes made in the past, in your childhood and further still, but that would be straying from the subject at hand. You asked me how I shielded you, and I will tell you, starting with the first of your crimes.”

Loki huffs, already knowing where the All-Father is going.

“You let Jotnar into Asgard’s walls, into the Vaults, the most dangerous places of all; your actions resulted in the death of the guards stationed there. That is treason in and of itself, not to mention your admitted intention, to undermine my decision to make Thor King.”

“He would have been terrible!” Loki sneers.

“Initially, yes,” Odin agrees. “But after some mistakes, enough that he would recognize his own rashness and recklessness, he would have been in a position where he could either improve or give up entirely. Having already made an oath, his honor and pride would have prevented him from doing anything other than listening to my, and your, advice.”

The Prince blinks. This… is not what he expected.

He had always thought the All-Father blind to his eldest faults, eager to see the brave warrior and not the incompetent fool. That he knew the whole time…

“Why,” he croaks out, “why didn’t you tell me that?”

“And risk you telling Thor?” Odin cocks as eyebrow. “That would have defeated the entire purpose, don’t you agree?”

Suddenly to weary to bother with replying, Loki merely gestures at him to continue.

“Your actions against Jotunheim cannot be considered a crime, as you were King at the time. Trying to kill Thor, though? That was unlawful, executing a man sentenced to exile. And after your fall, when you came back, you allied yourself with the Chitauri, led an army against one of the Nine, which Asgard is sworn to protect. When you were brought back, you spit in my face and insulted the man you still claimed as King, “Loki of Asgard”.”

“Any other man would have been killed for all those crimes, Loki. As King, it would have been my duty to give you to the executioner. But because you are my son, I allowed myself to be swayed by my wife. A lifetime in a cell, more comfortable than what most receive.”

“An eternity in a cage,” Loki adds bitterly. “An eternity to pace, grow restless, go _mad…_ ”

“If you were half as clever as you believed yourself to be, you would be able to claw yourself out of it, given time” Odin interrupts coldly. “And here you stand.”

It takes a while for the words to sink in. “No,” Loki shakes his head violently, “you are not so hopeful, not so law in your ruling. The only escape you would have allowed me is one you controlled entirely.” He glares at him, breathing heavily. “You would have had your pawn after all!”

“I would have had you in the role I meant for you,” Odin corrects. “You would have been Thor’s advisor, under the guise of making penance. A prisoner still, so that your newfound ambition could never be accomplished.” His lips purse, as if tasting the bitterness of failed plans. “A king and his advisor. My two sons ruling side by side. What greater pride than that?”

“Pride?” The word hurts to say, after all this time. Hurts, and Loki’s voice shakes as he says it. He hates himself for it, hates more how he cannot help but ask, “what pride in a jotun runt, King of Asgard?”

“There never was a jotun runt,” Odin corrects, almost gently, and Loki wants to scream. “Only my much-loved son.”

And that, that is too much. Loki gets up, turns his back and walks away. He has in mind to go through the door, to leave the room and the King in it. The King who speaks of _pride_ , of _love_ , and in whose voice Loki cannot find a lie, no matter how much he wants to.

He wants to hate Odin. Wants to be able to spit in his face, curse his name.

And he can do it, Odin-King, All-father, with his plans and his schemes, his shrewdness that none in Asgard seem to take not of, him he can hate.

But father, and pride, and _you are my son_ , that he cannot. Could never.

The shame of it would kill him, if the opposite weren’t also true.

He may love his father; he cannot love a King.

“If that was your plan,” he says slowly, uncomprehendingly, “then why am I here? Why are you making me _King?_ ”

“Because you are the better choice,” Odin answers simply, before his expression darkens. “I have two sons. One of them has remained in Asgard, has a wife with connections to several Realms, has gone above and beyond in service of his kingdom. The other has forsaken his duty, and has chosen to associate with _goats._ ” He spits out those last words like foul poison. “So let him have what he wants. Let him reject the throne. I will give it to the son who is worthy.”

Loki closes his eyes. “Don’t use that word,” he hisses, though it still sounds weak even to his own ears.

“Why not?” Odin challenges. “You should sit back down; it would be politer.”

For a moment, Loki toys with the idea of staying standing, just to prove that he doesn’t obey blindly. But that would be petty, and pettiness would not serve him here. So he settles back down, taking his glass in hand once again.

He says nothing for a long while, looking at the fireplace as he tries to a gather his thoughts.

Worthy, the King said. Loki hates that word, craves it, and understands it all too well. He understands how fickle it is.

“You are making me King because you are angry with Thor,” he says quietly. “That will fade in time, and you will come to regret that choice.”

“Even if that were true, you would be King by then, so what does it matter.” Odin shakes his head. “But I do not crown you reluctantly, or even rashly. I have waited a long time for you to get here. It’s why I called Sigyn back, after all.”

“You couldn’t have known what she would do.”

“No one can know another’s moves for certain, but she is predictable in her shrewdness. She wishes to be loved, like any lonely child.” The King leans back. “And she is good at it. She can charm, she can make others care for her. I needed you redeemed in the eyes of Asgard, and she was the only one both willing and able to do so.”

“And those tasks you appointed me with?”

“They gave you an opportunity to showcase your talents.” Loki nods; he expected as much. “Three tasks clearly stated before the court, and they could then watch you accomplish each and every one. Like a story.”

“And children do enjoy stories,” the Prince says almost like a smile. “You had no true guarantee it would work. That they would care.”

“No. I could only hope.”

“Such risks you take, All-Father.” He takes another sip. “Tell me, what would you have done had Sigyn failed to redeem me in the eyes of the people? Would you have stepped in yourself?”

“Certainly not.”

At that, Loki laughs. It is one of the most honest sounds he has made in the past year. “Keeping your options open by appearing uninvolved. How very shrewd of you.”

Aye, but you and I both know it to be an important quality in a king.” He leans back in his chair. “Thor was right, you know. You do understand ruling much better than he ever will.”

The Silvertongue sobers up quickly. “If this is an attempt at flattery…” he threatens.

“Not at all.” The All-Father sighs. “Thor is noble, and noble Kings do well only in times of prosperity. In hard times, he would have needed you, one way or the other. I thought you would be content in the role of an advisor, guiding from the shadows as was your preference. My failing was that I underestimated your need for glory. No, do not deny this,” he interrupts when Loki opens his mouth to object, “We are having an honest conversation after all. Your intentions are never selfless, Loki. You may have taken into account the good of Asgard, but humiliating Thor and setting yourself up for consideration were an equal factor. You should be glad; you have what you desire know.”

Loki looks to the side, gazing into the fireplace crackling next to them. “I did not want the throne.”

“But you do now. And you shall have it.”

He hums non-committedly, falling into silence once more. Eventually he murmurs: “Does it disappoint you?”

“Does what disappoint me?”

“You had set yourself up a golden heir, with an untarnished reputation and the embodiment of everything Asgard values. If not for me, you would have succeeded.  But now you have come to make use of the second prince, the traitor and the coward. Is that not a letdown?”

“You do have a tendency to upset my plans. But as far as disappointment goes…” Odin gets up, walks up to Loki so as to stand next to him. “My successor is a renowned sorcerer, a famed diplomat. He has slayed the Kurse, fortified Asgard’s defenses. As for your downfall since Thor’s failed coronation…If Sigyn and you work at it, in a couple centuries all anyone will remember of that time is that you survived the Void, a feat no other man can claim. Why should I be disappointed?”

“The man who survived the Void…” Loki says thoughtfully. “You cannot possibly know that.”

“Can’t I?” Odin asks lightly. “Then consider this: I hanged for Nine Days and Nine Nights on the branches of Yggdrasil.”

“Your prowess in renowned.” Loki deadpans, annoyed.

 “I did not do it voluntarily,” the King continues cheerily, “It was the unfortunate result of my youthful recklessness, dabbling with magic I was not prepared to harness. But ask anyone and they will tell you of my noble sacrifice in the pursuit of wisdom.”  He looks down at his son knowingly.

Loki pauses, mouth slightly hanging open. He then laughs weakly. “You are sly, All-Father.”

“That I am.” He hums thoughtfully. “People have often said that you were Frigga’s son and that Thor was mine. Although I see their meaning, I always found the opposite to be true. Thor is as kindhearted as my wife was. And you, Loki,” he finishes, saying his name with such tenderness it makes Loki’s gut clench, “you are very much my son.”

Loki closes his eyes. “I cannot forgive your lies.”

Odin nods. “I cannot forgive your deeds.”

“However,” Loki gulps, and stares straight into his father’s eyes, “when I rule, I would have you advise me. If it pleases you.”

The All-Father smiles. “And I would have you be great, Loki Odinson.” He places a hand on his son’s shoulder, and squeezes.

Loki does not protest.

 

*

 

_And how does it end?_

_A love story. A tale of conquest. How does it end?_

*

 

It ends as it begins: by Loki kneeling in front of the All-Father.

But it is different, is it not?

For he kneels with pride, rather than forced humility. For Sigyn stands on the steps, rather than in the crowd.

For Asgard is covered by the dome of his wards, for its coffers are filled with the fruit of his treaties.

For the threat of the Frost Giants has been finally put to rest.

For there is no other Prince who might threaten him.

Loki kneels, and the All-Father speaks.

“Loki Odinson, do you swear to guard the Nine Realms?” the King asks.

Loki swears, for Sigyn and he have worked very hard to claim them as their own, and they so dislike sharing.

“Do you swear to preserve the peace?”

He swears, if only because wars are so very inconvenient.

“Do you swear to cast aside all selfish ambition and pledge yourself only to the good of all the Realms?”

He swears, as he looks at Sigyn.

He swears, for they will both be King and Queen, and their good is the good if all the Realms. For there is nothing selfish in their ambition, not when it will benefit the Realm.

“Then on this day, I, Odin All-Father, proclaim you King.”

And Loki rises.

And the cheer is thunderous.

Loki revels in it, knows Sigyn does as well.

Their eyes meet, and they both smile.

He will kiss her, he thinks then. When the cheer is over, he will march towards her and kiss her, for all to see. And they will praise, and they will swoon, and all they will see is the King and his future Queen.

Sigyn and Loki look at each other, smile, and bask in their victory.

They have conquered.

Now watch as they rule.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most Logyn shippers probably know her already, but I must insist that you go check out Nanihoo's art at http://nanihoosartblog.tumblr.com/. Her design of Sigyn is what I have been picturing while writing this fic.
> 
> Also, her art is gorgeous.

**Author's Note:**

> I know I already have WIPs to do, but this particular fic has been on my computer for the past three months. I already have about half of it written. I'm putting it out here to give me some more motivation to finish it.
> 
> It's going to be three chapters long, updated irregularly, but it will be completed!


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